Only the Heartless
by Dollfayce
Summary: There is only one way to fly. HookxWendy.
1. Chapter 1

A MEMORABLE FANCY

_("The ancient tradition that the earth will be consumed in fire at the end of six thousand years is true._

_As I have heard from hell.")_

What had happened was the terrible experiment of a man trying to live a life in a place that is not meant for mortal life. The Neverland was a place of gorgeous paradox and impossible absolutes, of colors so bright they burned, and only the very cruelest of truths. A sharp, cutting place—a prison of sorts, though one was free to travel anywhere. It is a nighttime chthonic place, of dreams and nightmare and imagination. It is not a home.

His name was James. Captain, and Hook, had come later. He died claiming all of those names as his.

The details and circumstance of Captain James Hook's death and his respective involvement with the Boy and the Storyteller are well documented elsewhere.

As he had died, he had felt no pain. No, it had been a mere voyeur/object sinister sensory experience, of immense dark and suffocating black and the only slightly muffled gunshots of his legs crumpling, his neck snapping. Of particular note was the cracking of the sternum—the deep shattering sensation of being broken into a million pieces, like that fairy laugh of legend, and even in the belly of the crocodile he could feel it all gush out.

Disassociation, maybe.

He had felt no joy either. Death, the Boy had said, will be an awfully big adventure. (But that one had no idea what living meant.) No, all Captain Hook had felt was a profound _relief_. Of giving into darkness, to death, to time: all those thousand niggling nibbling fear-yellow _rats_ of anxiety and despair to die, along with him, by his own hand. Or hook, as it were. Steel bright. Ever his companion. Mostly he thinks he should have opened a vein years ago.

To die, as the poem goes. To sleep no more. Benefits of the best of English education.

If he had remembered the rest of poem—that in that sleep of death what dreams may come—he might have thought twice of giving fully into the clock and his own mortality. That mere sweet fear had been enough to stay the other young prince's hand. Perhaps the captain was a braver man. Perhaps he was even more desperate. To be lost forever in that ocean.

But oblivion was not his to choose. Not in the Neverland.

Silence; then that first deep breath, gunshot gasp, cold as anything, filling his lungs to breaking. James Hook awoke to his own frantic panting. And the sound of his heart, that muffled tick-tick-clackety-clock of blood rushing inside. As if he instead of the crocodile had… but never mind.

He opened his eyes, but was appalled by the light let in and closed them again. Instead he tried to slow his breathing.

It seemed he had little choice in this matter as well, because almost immediately he heard a voice—too sharp, too high, too ingratiating for a man so recently facing all the inevitabilities of life all over again. But there was nothing he could do.

"Cap'n," Smee said, somewhere to his left. "Cap'n! You be awake early!"

At that sound, that interruption, Hook felt bile start to boil, the anger twisting his lips and turning his eyes behind their dark lashes a hideous red. As always, he let it past.

"Smee," he said, instead. "I…was dreaming, methinks. Of death." Talking—or at least, the act of communication—made him feel human again. Part of the race. An English gentleman.

"Death, sir?" Smee would always know how to play along. It was the only reason he was still alive.

"Aye." Hook opened his eyes—still the most startling steel of blue—and found his first mate, at his side. The Irishman was just far enough away to be out of range of a surprise swipe of Hook's eponymous weapon. Smee, as it has been said, knew his captain. He had his red hat clutched nervously in his hands, his head bowed deferentially.

Hook groaned as he tried to sit up. Smee made no move to help, which was fortunate as he would have been disemboweled. Only now was the captain becoming aware of his immediate surroundings.

He was seated on his chaise, in his cabin. They were as he remembered—too much red, too much gold, all in lurid and lush fabrics, colors, prints. All in tribute to some era and some philosophy of life he was no longer a part of. If he ever was. His clothes too, dark damask waistcoats and the finest of shoes—marking him a dandy. A louche, a smiling libertine, moving in dizzyingly high circles that had long since forgotten him.

Forgotten. Alone.

It was enough to kill a man.

"Smee," he tried again, his high voice cracking, and uncertain. "Surely, what I saw and felt was not a dream?"

"Cap'n?" the other man answered.

"Surely," he kept on. "I have died?"

"You're here now, sir," Smee said, which was no sort of an answer at all. "Right as rain, you are."

"Now!" Hook whispered. "And what of then, Smee? Wasn't I…" Hook pretended to trail off, in thought, while glancing sideways at the smaller man. Guilt and terror were scrawled messy on his crumpled-paper face. It told Hook everything he needed to know.

"What, sir?" he said. "I don't rightly know what you're speaking of."

"I think you _do_," hissed Hook. "And moreover, if you do not tell me immediately what I wish to know…" The pirate tried to stand up, the better to intimidate, but fell immediately back down. "Then…" he was gasping. "I'll…"

"Shoot me right between the eyes? Run me through?" Smee offered helpfully.

"Aye. Shoot you right between the eyes," Hook finished, with as much dignity as he could muster. "Split me infinitives, man, what has happened?"

The first mate looked down at his captain, the ruined beauty of a man clutching to the chaise for balance like a lifeboat in a storm. His captain who always knew what to do, who he had known for years, who got his sea legs first moment he stepped on a ship all those years ago. The first mate also considered his facility for lying to said captain, and possible consequence.

"You mean, sir," he started quietly. "You remember this time?"

"This time?"

"Aye sir," he said. "You never have before. Always just woke up, thinking it was a bad dream mixing poor with last night's rum."

"_This _time?" the other man asked again, vexed. "Smee, what sorcery is this? How many times…how many times have I died?"

"Don't rightly know, sir," Smee said, offhand. "Lessee. Last time it happened, you were back right before…well, before Peter Pan returned. With the storyteller."

"Wendy…" he whispered.

"Aye, sir, the Wendy."

Hook seemed lost in thought for the moment. "She was my undoing, this time," he said softly, mostly to himself.

"Wendys are treacherous creatures, sir."

At that unflagging support, Hook had to smile. "Are they? My memory…sometimes it is a trouble to me."

Smee nodded solemnly. "Treacherous creatures indeed. You are not the first man to suffer at their hands."

Hook still smiled, and regarded his longtime, his only, his idiot friend. "I wish to go above," he declared. "Have the men go below, as I prepare myself. I would not have them seeing me like this."

He seemed rather unnaturally pleased to be dismissed. "Aye-aye sir! Right away."

Hook waited until the door had shut behind Smee before he tried to stand. So he had died before. Intriguing. Even for Neverland. Although, he must admit, it explained a lot. Made a certain sense. He would question his first mate, perhaps others, later.

But the present was the present.

And the now had to be dealt with. (This is why Neverland is such a dangerous place. There is only, and as ever, now.)

Hook succeeded in standing up, and afforded himself a rueful congratulations. (This, for a man so terrifying even Barbecue feared him!) He made his way over to the armoire, where he kept his most lovely things. Inside the door was the decadent rainbow of color and clothing so prized. And the slight, sickly-sweet smell of rot that was ever present on his ship, in his possessions—while everything on the actual Neverland burst with brightness and health, and purity.

Degeneracy palpable, here on his once-grand ship.

He was a man much given to thought, but he had never before felt so struck by the dichotomy.

For later, though. Instead he selected a jacket, a shirt, and everything else meant to make him feel like himself again. He was not pleased to note that some of the clothes, the jacket especially, were a little loose. He had always prided himself on being in tremendously good shape, even for a man of his age.

Whatever that was. It was hard to tell, especially here. His hair—a source of pride since he was old enough to care about such things—was still the deepest black, and his skin correspondingly, beautifully pale, and unblemished as yet by his favorite vices. The only clues came from his face: the creased lines where he sneered, the border of crow's-feet around his, in his opinion, astoundingly clear, piercing eyes.

Not that it mattered. In this place, what mattered was that he was adult.

A man.

A man that had died many times before, had had always been dragged back for some unknown reason, to relive the same farce over and over again. To never age, never change, never learn.

It was a certain, beautifully constructed, absolutely inescapable hell.

The same story, Hook thought, over and over again. His shiny leather boots clicked and clacked on the wood of the deck, as the sea breeze wound harshly through his hair. This was his ship. His island. His obsession. His hell. And heaven help the man or woman who challenged him.

Or child. A little girl, maybe.

Hook surveyed the roiling ocean, enjoying the near-silence and the rhythm of the waves. Where he felt at home. And Hook thought.

Like Smee had said. This time he remembered. He remembered what had gone wrong, and what the Wendy had said, especially when confronted with the riddle of the Boy's existence. He knew he was only part of the narrative in the Neverland. What he needed was someone who could build the narrative—end it, finally. Or at least tell him what happens next.

Hook's first official decision as a new man was to find the Storyteller, and demand his own story. The answer to his own riddle.

Maybe then he could die. Maybe if he was lucky, he could take it all down with him.

Somewhere else, in the land of Ugly, and Ordinary, Wendy shivered in her sleep.

It had been _so_ long.

A/N—Hooray! This is a marked improvement upon my last Captain Hook story, which I wrote at about six years of age. (And my mother always acts surprised on how I've turned out.)

Read, enjoy, and please review.

Love, Dollfayce


	2. The Doors of Perception Cleansed

(If the doors of perception were cleansed…)

What was remarkable about _this_ night was it was the night Wendy decided to tell her own story.

Wendy dreamed. It was her downfall.

It was not unusual for her to have nightmares, but—they had been coming more and more often. She had put it down to the new stresses of being a proper young woman. Of course, she didn't really believe it either. She thrived in her education, in the social circles she was part of. That was never the problem.

It was her dreams.

What others remembered as a particular sort of dream, what even she herself wanted to pass off as some unhealthily intense escapism, had in fact ruined Wendy for any sort of normal life.

It was not this first time this thought had occurred to her. In fact, on almost every night, including this one, she awoke quite suddenly from her awful dream. She had taken to then sitting at her window seat and considering this very fact. Her mother had recently told her she looked quite the picture, all pale skin and pale nightclothes, with the moon doing wonders for her sky-grey eyes. It was supposed to make her feel like one of her romantic heroines, from her stories she was so fond of. It had only put into stark contrast her dilemma.

That she wasn't. Even if she knew she had the heart for it.

Really, though. After having lived in a land where all the colors were that much too bright, and where every day was an adventure and every one of _those_ adventures was quite literally life and death? Who could possibly_care_ what dress one was wearing to whatever was the next party? Or even what sweet dull boy wanted to court her? Or that question of questions—should she take up some kind of employment or not?

Wendy Darling was not anxious to face these questions.

Instead she sat silent, and looked outside. At the chimney smoke twirling around pools of starlight.

She supposed it had been quite mature to make the decision to leave the Neverland, and develop into her own person. She always was quite a bright girl. An imaginative girl.

Here is a secret her brothers didn't know. To her young cousins, she still told stories of the best there ever was. Of the Neverland, and of golden Peter, and dark Hook. Yet more and more, against her wishes, almost, the stories became more ambivalent. Not good versus evil. Of child versus adult.

Another of Wendy's downfalls was she was now an adult. And that lonely evil broken man she had seen die—in front of her very eyes—was reappearing where he had no right to.

Of course now Wendy had little opportunity to tell stories, with her brothers being young men now. She was often, as was appropriate, left to her own devices.

He nightmare had been bad tonight. Wendy shivered. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she held herself tight. Lately, it was becoming more than she could bear.

When her brothers had been frightened by a nightmare, they had never gone to their parents. Instead they had turned to Wendy. She had never been upset to be roused by her sleep by frightened little hands shaking her shoulder. Or by their pleas to be held, or by their insistence that only a story could comfort them.

So now they were gone, and it was her turn.

"Once upon a time," she whispered, and then giggled to herself as though she felt foolish. She realized, though, she didn't in the least. The smile left her lips, and she decided to go on.

"Once upon a time," she started again. "There was a very brave and very beautiful girl named Wendy. She was also very clever. She knew, for instance, how to get to the Neverland, which is the deepest darkest secret imaginable. She went there once, when she was but a child, and there she befriended and defeated Indians and mermaids and…pirates."

That hesitation meant something, probably, but she wouldn't let it ruin her story.

"With brave Peter, she fought and flew and was as heartless and free as he. She became a pirate, and told stories to the handsome Hook, the man of feeling on the island. She did not know what either offered her. They possibly did not know themselves."

Pan. And, oh, Hook. To be troubled by a memory was bad. To be haunted by a ghost was worse.

"Of course," she added in a hurry, and now she had stopped whispering but was talking aloud, "the clever Wendy decided to go back home. She had to grow up. She had to change, because no one can change in Neverland."

"Years went by and she _did_ change. But life did not become better, or less confusing. She had not forgotten how to fly, which was her second deepest darkest secret, but no longer could she fly wherever her heart would take her. She had lost too much."

"So, one night, she decided to go back to Neverland. She could not fly. But she would do as she did before, and sit at the window, and tell stories, until she lost her heart again and could fly."

Wendy shifted in her seat. "And then she would be happy."

Only silence greeted her tale, and strangely tears flooded Wendy's vision. Which only made her laugh.

A childish fancy, to say the least.

Yet for three nights in a row she told this same story, always under starlight, always to herself.

On the third night, when she reached the end and was climbing back into the comfort of her covers, she heard a rapping sound. Surely it was her mother, wanting to speak to her about something. She climbed right back out into the cold, and opened the door.

No one there. Only a blank dark corridor. Wendy became profoundly frightened.

The sound came again, quite insistent, almost…metallic?

Her head whirled around to the window, her long hair whipping around with the sharp movement. There was a dark shadow at her window. Her heart leapt—until she realized it was too tall, too _broad_ to be her wild boy. It was someone else entirely.

Trembling, she walked slowly towards the window. She was not certain this was what she wanted.

Wendy flung open the window and stepped back. Without waiting for invitation—although who knew the prescribed etiquette in these matters—the pirate captain stepped delicately into the room. Wendy, mildly curious to say the least, looked behind him, and saw he had been standing on a glorified rowboat of some kind. It very obligingly remained hovering behind him.

"My lady," the man spoke. "Forgive me for entering your private chambers in this_unforgiveable _fashion." His eyes were all regret, and his voice was as oily and charming as she remembered.

"You are forgiven," she declared archly. "It was I, after all, who let you in."

"That you did," Hook said, and he seemed to find something amusing about the statement that Wendy did not.

He approached her slowly, so as not to frighten her. "As this visit is somewhat unorthodox, might I escort you to the comfort and safety of my ship?" Hook offered his right arm, the light glittering off the fine embroidery and, not the least, his hook.

Wendy stared at him for a moment. And laughed. "Sir!" she cried. "What on earth could persuade me to do that?"

Hook seemed taken aback by her laughter, but smiled with thin lips when she spoke. "My dear," he said, "my _darling_, do you think Peter is the only one who hears stories?" His smile had turned quickly into a sneer. "You're unhappy. I'm unhappy. There seems to be only one solution, and that is your urgent presence in Neverland."

"How did you _get_ here? I didn't know you could leave."

"I can't," he said shortly. "Not really. Not permanently. With that in mind…" he proffered his arm again. "Shall we?"

She frowned right back at him, but took his arm, and they both stepped into the night.

A/N Wow, this took a while. Whatever. Read, review, tell me if this is pretentious crap or actually interesting. I always get insecure about mostly non-smut fics.


	3. Everything Would Appear as it Is

The boat was dark wood and silver filigree, and though its flight was no doubt as enchanted as her last return journey, it left no golden sparks in its wake

The boat was dark wood and silver filigree, and though its flight was no doubt as enchanted as her last return journey, it left no golden sparks in its wake. Instead it cut through the air silently, and quickly, completely on its own power. The only sound was the wind and the only sensation was the cold starlight glow. It all swished by as before—clouds, clocktowers, brick and smoke, and everyone asleep and dreaming.

Wendy could not help but smile as broad as she could. Everything would be exciting again. Everything would be _right_ again. Even though her companion was very different.

She looked up from the scenery and was startled to find the Captain's uncomfortably blue eyes examining her, along with a soft ironic smile. She was not pleased with such patronizing treatment, and, meeting his gaze, lifted her nose in the air haughtily. This from the man she had defeated in battle!

A thought occurred, and she gasped a little. "Sir," she said, nervous. "I hesitate to ask, but surely you do not intend any harm to my person? I realize you and I did not part on such pleasant terms, to say the least—"

"Darling girl," he said, without losing the ironic hint to the curl of his lip. "Beg pardon for stating what you know as a cliché from your stories, but…had I wanted you harmed, you would have already known. You would be in very much pain indeed."

"Oh," said Wendy. "I see."

"You were just a little girl last time I saw you," he said reflectively. Conversationally.

"And you, sir, were dead."

He paused. "You are of course correct."

"Then I suppose we are both absolved."

Something about their conversation struck her as funny, but she did not laugh.

This and other earlier pleasantries complete, the man and storyteller quickly lapsed into silence. Wendy rather got the feeling she had left most social niceties at the window with the rest of her life, but still she felt at a loss. Instead she concentrated on holding on, and keeping calm, and do anything but stare at the rather intriguing figure from her past sitting just across from her.

He was not what she remembered. Not exactly. She wondered if she had omitted or fabricated details about him, or whether he himself had changed in the ensuing years. Or maybe it was just the odd disconnect of meeting in the flesh one of your dreams and nightmares. Still he had the unsettling steel gaze, and the unsettling steel hand. Still he had black hair falling all around his face, and even now he wore the finest of clothes. But she couldn't remember the eyes being so completely entrancing, or the hook arousing anything other than terror. And she was certain his hair had not brushed his face in such a distracting and decadent manner, and she couldn't remember his shoulders being so broad, or his skin so pale, against all the red. Which was really old-blood purple at night. Most of all she couldn't remember the secret thrill of a half-kidnapping.

It is perhaps well she mostly avoided his gaze, because Hook himself was making no pretense of not looking. His thoughts were equally as surprised, but not as confused. Who knew the little storyteller would have grown up. His only disconnect was associating that annoying if intriguing little brat with the lovely young woman seated before him. And the starlight really did wonders for her figure in that nightgown. Not that he wasn't thinking about other, more important things.

Of course, instead of looking at Hook she decided to look down, and found the world a rather disturbing amount of miles below her. She could not help but cry out, and cling to the side, and shut her eyes tight.

"Oh!" she tried to laugh, and did not succeed. "I do not remember flying this very high!" Or being this very frightened, she wanted to add. To be fair, she had been focusing on the joy of flight and Peter, but still.

"That is because you did not know it was possible to fall," came Hook's voice.

"Is it?" she cried.

"No," he admitted after a pause. "I do not think so. Not now."

She opened her eyes, carefully, and found herself surrounded by black. "It was cruel of you to say that."

He did laugh at that. But then his face sobered. "Wendy," he said, and for some reason the thought struck her that he rarely if ever called her by name, and not title or diminutive. This thought almost led her to miss his next words. "This next part of the trip is very dangerous. At least for you. I do not know if you will be able to cross the worlds safely."

"What?"

An eyebrow arched, and the hooded eyes regarded her. "I do not fear for my own safety, but—"

"That is noble of you."

"A matter of mere pragmatics, I assure you." Hook studied his storyteller for a second longer, before seeming to come to a decision. "My dear," he said. "You will have to forgive this unforgivable breach of etiquette, but…" and with that very fluidly moved himself to her side of the boat, putting his mangled right arm around her smooth shoulders.

She almost forgot to protest. "Captain!" she said. "As if I already wasn't being kidnapped."

"Yes," he smiled, and so close it had a predatory shine, "you certainly did put up a valiant struggle."

"A lady—"

"A lady nothing," he said, his voice cold and high. "You, my dear, are no lady, and I do not mean that ill. Hush," he said, and silenced her with his only hand. He looked off to the side. She followed his gaze. It did seem indeed like the boat was gathering speed. This time she did forget to protest.

He tensed up, and in response she tensed, and decided against biting his hand. Out of respect for the other one, of course.

"Hold on," he said. She obeyed, and closed her eyes.

She felt the whooshing air, the unspeakable cold, the only dubious feeling grounding her being the warmth and scratch of the too-fine fabrics of Hook's coat, and the pressure of his arms—but even that seemed to fade—

In fact she was sure of it, the boat was dropping out from under her and the satin was sliding against her shoulders as she fell into that blissful black. She opened her eyes in surprise, and caught the glint of a hook, which she reached out for as she screamed—

And then suddenly she was very uncomfortable indeed, facedown on a sandy beach, halfway soaked in surf.

Wendy Darling scrambled to sit up, if only to cough up water she had obviously inhaled. And then there was that glint of metal again, as Hook was standing in front of her, offering to help her up. She accepted, still coughing. The Captain had lost his hat, and he looked rather nonplussed as well. The boat was nowhere to be seen.

"What happened?" she asked, when she could speak again. The sun was glaring into her eyes, the wind whipping her hair. This competed with her last landing for sheer shock.

"Ah," Hook said. "An excellent question." He was, awkwardly, it must be admitted, trying to assist in her recovery. She waved him away, and he was immediately more at ease. "You were almost lost. Between worlds. It seems you have changed more than you think. Though less than you should have…" he added.

"Captain," the young woman said. She had regained her bearings. "Please attempt to make more sense. I do not know the workings of the Neverland as you do."

Hook was thoughtful. "I should sincerely hope this is not the case, or this will be a wasted trip."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm afraid I can't explain any more, my dear," he said unhelpfully. "Or at least, not until we arrive at the ship."

Wendy laughed. "I am sorry indeed, it seems we are having the most unfortunate time communicating. Ship? You mean your boat? I must admit, I had rather hoped to look up old friends. Shall we make time to meet soon?"

The pirate laughed right back at her, for a rather inappropriate interval, she thought. "Oh my darling girl," he said. "We are indeed having trouble, for you are operating under a rather severe misconception." Still chuckling, he fished out a cigarette from a silver case and lit it rather deftly considering. His eyes darkened behind the smoke. "You shall accompany me back to my ship. You shall stay on my ship with me, under the most appropriate of circumstances, of course. You shall, in fact, stay there until we solve our rather unfortunate dilemmas. While there you shall be under my command and shall follow my orders. Under no circumstances will you speak to the boy or make your presence otherwise known. Do we understand each other now?" His sneer could not have been more mocking. "I would simply detest us to have any more difficulty, ah, _communicating._" He flicked away the cigarette.

Wendy's grey eyes were wide with anger. She had been a fool to think they could act like civilized people. Of course. Both of them, fools. But if the man thought she would be subjugated in this matter!

He was right, and she hadn't changed that much.

So Wendy Darling just smiled at mean old Captain Hook, and sweetly said, "I suppose I must fly then."

With that—and she was very thankful she had kept up her flying practice!—she jumped in the air, and actually began floating away. Certainly she could not travel far, and most certainly not between worlds, but she could get to the top of an obliging tree!

Only Hook was too fast. His hand was out like a shot, entangling his long white fingers in her long soft hair. Just as deft as he had lit the cigarette, he whirled her back, pulled her to him in a rather menacing embrace, and just like old times, the hook was against her throat and that dark whisper was in her ear.

"I don't think you comprehend," he said. "I am a gentleman, this is true. But I will not be disobeyed. Do you understand me?" His voice was throaty and strangely enthralling, and she almost did not mind the reek of smoke.

Although she did make a point to grimace. The girl was most disconcerted at the turn of events and it took a moment to collect herself.

"I understand," she finally said, and she said it so archly and with such distaste that Red-Handed Jill would have been proud.

For a brief moment, they stood locked together, tense, panting, not daring to move lest something terrible happen.

And then the spell was broken, and Hook released her. Mostly. He would not trust her half-hearted promises, and they walked silently and arm in arm to where Hook was keeping his ship.

This all would take some getting used to.

A/N—Okay this was supposed to be like one page. What even happened. Oh Hook and Wendy. You have my heart forever. I'm still getting the hang of how these two interact, but it will be awesome, never you fear. Also the tension. Oh the tension. I'm loving that more than I thought.

I'm open to suggestions on this after I realized what I almost wrote was a long philosophical treatise. So read, review, I thrive on feedback. Thanks and much love. Summer is almost upon us, let's all hold out for then!

--Dollfayce.


	4. Where are your Fairy Stories Now?

WHERE ARE THE FAIRY STORIES NOW

The Jolly Roger was not smaller than she remembered it, as is often the case when revisiting the places of our childhood. If anything it had grown, since she had seen it last, like some gothic spider all black and spindly on the water. Wendy balked as they reached the harbor and it rose into sight. This was the ship of her imagination, not memory.

"Something wrong?" Hook, all politeness, had stopped with her.

She looked up at him. "Captain, I feel I must enquire…has your ship--well--"

"What?" He was raising an eyebrow and making her feel very much the silly little girl.

"Has it--changed--at all?"

Hook did not seem to find this question silly in the least. "I could not tell you. It is as I remember it always. Does it look different to you?"

"Yes. It seems--darker."

Hook smiled just as dark, just to himself. "I would imagine so." He changed his position, taking her arm in one hand and placing his hook behind her waist to give her a gentle push as he continued walking. "But come, my lady, I deprived you of sleep this most passing strange of evenings. You must be quite tired."

She didn't answer. He didn't seem much to care.

There was another rowboat waiting on the shore to take them to the ship. She exclaimed on the coincidence, but the captain shrugged it off, saying the Neverland usually provided for its own.

"But," he said. "Are you going to fly away again, pretty little bird, or must I tie you to the boat?"

It was said in jest, if not meant in jest. She laughed politely. "No, good sir, I shall behave myself. I give you my word."

"The word of a storyteller?" Again, the smile in his voice was not sincere.

Wendy scoffed. "And what do you have to offer, sir?

"The word of a gentleman," Hook said prettily.

"The word of a story," she sneered prettily back.

There was a flash of red in his eyes she remembered, and the hook rose that much to close to her throat for the barest of instances before the man remembered himself.

"Quite," was all he said, as he helped her into the ship. "That must do for now."

What Wendy didn't tell him was that she had completely decided to be a willing hostage. She was not stupid, the Neverland was the most dangerous land imaginable. And who knew how it had changed? Hook at least seemed to have a vested interest in protecting her that heartless and forgetful Peter, to be honest, never had. She had never been on the pirate ship as a real guest. It was time, she knew, to explore this avenue she had chosen against as a child--Neverland off the island.

Hook must have sensed her calm, however, for he paid only mild attention to making sure she was not about to leap out or take off.

They pulled up next to she ship, the impossibly clear water licking and slapping against its dark wooden sides. Hook was back in his element as captain, yelling for men to hoist them up and she could see the shadows of men above them hurrying to do his bidding. It was tedious and loud, and just to show that she could, Wendy stood, calculated, and floated up to the deck where she landed lightly. A little white angel among the ruined crew.

"Hello sirs," she addressed the astonished men. "It is I, Wendy Darling."

"Wendy!"

"Red-Handed Jill!"

"Red-Handed Jill has returned!"

Oh yes, she realized belatedly. She had already chosen a pirate name. That little drop of darkness she had lately tried to forget.

"Yes," came the cold clear voice. "I have brought Red-Handed Jill back, me blackguards." Hook had made his own way up, and though he was addressing the men he was regarding her, clearly displeased at being upstaged.

"Shall she tell us stories, Captain?" a terrifyingly large man asked.

"We shall see," he said, still staring, until he suddenly drew himself up and faced the crew. "MEN!" he bellowed. "I have returned, as you see, with a lady. She is to be treated with every deference and luxury. Any man touches her or in any way inconveniences her shall answer to my hook!" he finished, with a flourish of the weapon and a quite imposing grimace. "Am I understood?"

"Aye-aye, sir!" returned the crew.

"Return to your posts," Hook instructed, and they did their best to scamper and look as if they were going about some very important business.

The captain approached the girl, with an expectant sort of look.

"Was that necessary, Captain?" Wendy asked. "The men have always been most civil before. That is," she amended, "if we were not trying to murder one another."

Hook's eyes grazed her, in disbelief, she imagined. "Aye, that they have. It is how we treat little girls in Neverland. Young women, though, are a different matter and I would not have you experiencing any undue discomfort."

"Ah," she said brightly, pretending she had understood the implication all along.

"Your quarters, my dear?" he said, and gestured she was to walk ahead. The men were only pretending nonchalance, she was obviously the most fascinating thing to happen in a while. She was in fact surprised they remembered her at all, it had been so long.

Hook opened a door to what looked like his own quarters. He held the door for her, which was questionable etiquette when leading a lady into one's own bedroom.

Wendy strode in, and looked around. "Are these not your lodgings, Captain?"

"That they are," he said, smiling, walking in after her and past her. "Ship's rules the cabin boy sleeps in the room with the captain for protection--""From what?" she interrupted, and blushed when she realized what he was trying to delicately imply.

"From danger," Hook said drolly. "As such I've had Smee prepare the bed where we would keep the cabin boy had we one, but children are a bit of a problem around these parts so I have been storing books there." He had strode over to a corner of the room where there was indeed a cunning little bed, about Wendy-sized. He knelt to make some last minute adjustments. "I am pleased to say Smee did a very good job," he said, while smoothing the blankets. "Shall you be retiring now? I will of course leave the room while you make the necessary arrangements."

Wendy was hanging back. There was something so odd and visceral about the mere mention of the innocuous subjects of sleep and bed.

"I thought I might tell the men some stories."

"You will do no such thing," he said, walking back over to her.

"And why not?"

"Because here I am the captain, and you are but the storyteller."

"The way I see it, sir, I am the storyteller and you are but the story."

Their eyes met, and Hook would later curse his brashness.

Just a story, indeed.

A/N I apologize for this rather anemic installment but I usually don't like writing sex and violence without context. And I'm telling you it's feeling off writing both a Joker story and a Hook one at the same time. They're, well. Different.

But I hope you enjoy this one. I apologize also for the lack of updates but I've recently moved home to regroup and I'll have more time to write.

Love as always, Dollfayce.


	5. Tell me a Tale of a Broken Heart

MY HEART IS BROKEN

Face to face, broken foes. The man stared down the young woman. She saw again the red in his eyes, but instead of shivering, steeled herself against the steel that was sure to come--

"Just a story?" Hook whispered. It was surely a cliche to be more frightening when one whispered, but in this case it was unfortunately true. All that energy, a focused beam rather than an explosion. Wendy felt an ant under the proverbial magnifying glass. "Just a story?" he repeated, and then he did lift his hook.

The girl did not move, only stared. A challenge. The man, who must be admitted had a certain profound and terrible weakness to his character, still advanced--albeit slowly, almost thoughtfully. "A story indeed, Storyteller!" The hook brushed her cheek. Their gazes still were locked. "And what if I am? I am James Hook, captain of the Jolly Roger, scourge of a thousand nightmares, I am captain of all imaginable oceans, I am the broken man who runs from time, from life, yet I am he who cannot die, oh, I am old blood spilling from cracked skin, oh, Wendy!" At the last word--well. It could have been a slip. It could have been an excess of pain, of passion, of something, coming out all wrong.

But his hook, brushing her soft cheek, almost caressing it, got too harsh and suddenly there was blood on Wendy's cheek and tears in her eyes. Still she did not move.

The red on her ruined pale skin snapped Hook from his reverie, cancelled out the red in his own eyes. His harsh sneer turned instantly to contrition, and Wendy could not say for certain it was not genuine. "Oh bad form, James," he said softly. Rather theatrically, he fell to his knees before her, taking her hands in his good one.

"Oh--" he started, but couldn't seem to finish. Instead, never taking his eyes off her, he took a lace handkerchief from a pocket with his hook and pressed it into her hand. "Please," he said. "Forgive me."

Strangely, tears sprang to her own eyes. There was a shared pain between them greater than any little scratch. Honestly she had been expecting much worse. So she merely took the handkerchief with her own white hand, and dabbed to blood away. "I will, sir," she said, "this time."

He said nothing, only held her hand remaining to him to his lips.

Wendy was distressed, so she decided to laugh. "It is but a scratch, Captain!" she said. "I was expecting to be cut open, I must say!" She brought him to his feet. "This is but a mere scratch, an accident. Correct?" The last bit was said somewhat sharper. She was a resourceful girl, and would have little qualm in escaping.

The darkness was back in his face, his smile wry. All previous sentiment eradicated, an embarrassment. "Quite," he said. "I would never--" he laughed. "but that is a lie. I don't...want...to hurt you. Is that enough?"

She looked at him, still sharply. "Of course, Captain, if I am afforded the same indulgence."

Hook was taken aback, and then laughed. "Of course. My Darling." His good hand stroked her other cheek.

She wondered what had gotten into him. Wendy suddenly decided this was quite enough intense proximity for one evening, and moved to sit herself down on an available chaise. She smoothed her nightgown out prettily. "Now where were we?" she said. "Oh yes. You were to tell me why I am unable to tell stories to the men."

Hook leaned against a bedpost, almost suggestively, Wendy realized, although she did not care to imagine what it was he might be suggesting. At least that's what she told herself. He was intriguing to watch, actually, some strange animal, some enticing combination of sexuality, his features hard masculine, his stance and accentuations completely feminine, together a rotten decadence.

If Wendy just could have seen herself, ethereal and soft curving, pure against all the corruption, she would not have felt so safe.

His smile was the same way, as the rest of him, mesmerizing in its mystery. "For various reasons, my dear," he said. "One, because I rather think your stories have grown too...complex, perhaps, for the men, and we would not wish to confuse them unduly." Wendy raised her eyebrows at that. He continued. "Two, because I said so, and that need be reason enough." Her eyebrows went even higher. "Three, and perhaps most importantly, because I have my own plans for you, for myself."

As her eyebrows were unable to raise any higher, she was forced to scoff. "And what may those be?" she said. He smiled, and Wendy realized there was only so far proper language could get a young lady and that this was certainly not a situation covered in her lady's education. Her mother had, after all, told her of men, and she had figured out quite a bit of it on her own. "Not..." she almost couldn't say it. "Surely not anything untoward?"

"Oh most certainly things untoward," he said, and laughed quite cruelly at her expression. "Calm yourself, Miss Darling, a joke. I am a brigand, a libertine, whatever word you might care to use, this is true. But I would never, and I repeat never, force myself upon a woman, even one as beautiful as you." At that Hook looked very much like he had rather not have said that last bit, because he hurried on. "That rather defeats the purpose, doesn't it? Men like me pride ourselves on convincing rather than coercion," but really none of this was making the situation any better, so instead he coughed, and finished, "that is to say, you have nothing like that to fear from me. All I meant was," and he shrugged, "I want you to tell me my own story."

Wendy quite forgot her blushing at all the talk of convincing. "Your own story?" she said. "But why?"

He sat down on the bed, and ran his finger over his moustache, which was not actually his most becoming habit. "Because, Wendy," he said finally. "You did see me die. And it was not the first time. And I have never lied to you about myself. You grow up, you see, when you realize you have a heart because it has been shattered. But I have remained shattered. I cannot change, thus I cannot die. I run from the clock, from the crocodile, I hunt down the heartlessness I once was and am so envious of. I am but darkness and degeneracy. As I said. Old blood bled through cracked fingers."

"A pretty image."

"Quite." Tears in his eyes again, Wendy thought. He went on. "Wendy I have died a hundred times over, and still I am here. I do not know why. I do not even think I remember how. You must do for me as you did for Pan, tell me my own story so I have a chance of escape."

"Of death?" Wendy's cloud-grey eyes were wide.

"I do not know. I hope so. No, I hope not. Ha. That is it. I hope not, I have no hope. But this life," and he gestured carelessly around, almost gasped, "is untenable."

"I see," the young woman said, "And what makes you think I can help you?" She was not being unkind. "I do not know your story."

"I have heard you speak of me, hundreds of times!"

Wendy sighed, looked down at her bare feet. "I made it up," she said. "I think," she said. "I just said what I knew in my heart to feel right, I suppose." She looked back up. "Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely," the man said encouragingly, in his high patronizing voice she did remember, "of course. So all I ask of you is an end to mine, a conclusion."

The girl could again not meet his eyes. "Captain," she said. "I am only here because I do not know the end to anyone's story. I was trying to find mine, in fact, when you swept me away. Life--well it all gets so boring and desperate, and lonely, and, _ordinary_, does it not? I rather thought you were my answer, not the other way around."

"I see," Hook said. "Oh dear."

"What?"

"Well, I'll just have to keep you here until that changes."

"What?!" Wendy cried.

Hook just smiled, and stood, and removed his outer jacket. "Don't give me that nonsense, my girl. You are pleased as anything. You just told me how ordinary and lonely your life back in old England was. I need you. You want me. I rather think this could be a beneficial arrangement, wouldn't you agree?" He ran his hand through his hair, a surprisingly boyish gesture.

Wendy pouted, an echo of the child she almost was. But she couldn't help but smile back. That little drop of darkness.

"I will agree," she said archly. A thought occurred. "I would suggest then, that tomorrow we see the mermaids."

"Oh yes?" He approached her.

"Yes," she said. "Peter--that is, I've been told they know everything."

"A bargain, then!" He extended his hand. She took it. A peculiar electricity.

"Will you wait outside, then, while I retire, as you said?" she asked.

"Of course, Miss Darling," he said, with that same troubling smile, and then indeed did wait outside.

She only called him in when she was completely under the covers, and he made his own preparations in darkness. Strangely exhilarated as she was, she fell asleep first, listening for the sound of him falling asleep.

A/N--I think I've fixed all the typos (oh don't we all love hasty posting) and added my very own author's note. I am personally repulsed at my lack of updating. Except you see I've realized this month I can either sustain the boys, booze, and other bad habits lifestyle or I can sustain the productive lifestyle where I write. (Hence sabbatical from fanfiction.) So I'm gonna try to sustain the latter, because, well, every reason you can imagine. So the point of that was I'll be updating much faster!

Plus I have a much better idea now of the shape I want this to take. The telos, if you will.

That said, I love hearing what you think! It keeps me focused. And drop me a line, I love fellow fans.

More love than ever,

Dollfayce


	6. All of Creation will be Consumed

DARK CREATURES

(Oh that inky oblivion. Does one dream, in the Neverland? Perhaps dark Hook would know.)

All through the night, the most nightmare of sounds. Boards creaking. Sails flapping, cracking. Strange footsteps and menacing, disembodied laughter. Even the bitter cold lurking just outside the covers. All things that would have terrified Wendy as a child--and still, it must be said, unsettled her now--it made her feel all the more safe. Knowing that it was frightening, it was strange--and that none of it could possibly harm her tonight. She lapsed unconscious quickly.

And although she was the first asleep Wendy Darling awoke last, completely and immediately, with a delicious little gasp, to those observing. None of the slow languor of her usual mornings.

It took her a moment to realize it had all been a dream. Then it took her far longer to realize that this purple and gold bedding was nothing approaching her own simple linen from home, and this was in fact not her bed in the least, and that her own house did not rock back and forth so. (Although it was rather soothing, once one became used to it.) And that she did not currently share a bedchamber.

A curious feeling to realize so-called reality had been a dream, after all. Extremely disconcerting, actually. And completely exhilarating. Childishly, she flopped back onto the pillow and smiled. And here, let us realize that sensual immediacy of morning, when we do not know who we are or why or how, but only that clear drug-numb white of linen, and the sweetness of realizing everything from the night before was but a dream!

A dream.

But only briefly. A rap on the door--oh yes, she remembered, these were definitely not her private quarters.

"A moment!" she cried out, while doing an inventory of her presentability. Under normal circumstance a lady would not be seen until all morning ablutions were complete and she was entirely dressed. Obviously, given the resources of a pirate ship, this was not to be possible. But Wendy did make the effort of at least getting out of bed, and smoothing her hair and clothes. "You may enter, sir," she said, and braced herself for the presence of the captain.

It was no one so impressive. Instead small Smee bustled in, with a breakfast tray, eyes averted. Not quite the archetypal oh-rose-thou-art-sick wonder of the other one. But poetry was an over-dignified art anyway. Real life was seldom as intriguing.

"Begging your pardon, madam," he said, "but I brought you breakfast..." Furniture scraped and bumped as he made his way across the floor. Oh what on odd sense, at the same time everything she loved yet everything she despised about perfect old England! Home! The man was rather hilariously trying to place the on a table without glancing absolutely anywhere, for fear of compromising a lady's dignity. The service was beautiful, the silver glinting, winking, amidst the heavy darkness of the surroundings.

Wendy, fearful for both the safety of the tea and the man, couldn't help but laugh. "Mr. Smee!" she cried. "I remember you--do you perhaps remember me?"

Smee stopped, set the tray on the table, and then did look up with the strangest smile. "Of course I do, milady," he said. "It's not three days past since I last set eyes on ye," he continued cryptically. "And much smaller, ye were," he said as if to himself. "Very much smaller."

"Beg pardon?"

"Never you mind," he said, smiling this time with great warmth. Wendy, despite everything, could not help but feel a surge of warmth for the man in front of her--old, red-faced, avuncular, even, with his floppy hat and frayed clothing, and small glasses. And that Saint Nicholas smile. Although she did always suspect him of being much sharper than anyone gave him credit for. She smiled back, but did not question him.

"Your breakfast," he continued quickly, gesturing obviously. "Cap'n tells me you've a big day planned, and you'll need to keep your spirits up." He pulled out a chair for her, and she accepted graciously. "Also," he said, with a quick shuffle towards one of the rot-mahogany dressers, "he thought something like this might be appreciated--" and Smee rifled through the contents of the closet before retrieving something mostly burgundy and distressingly layered.

"Oh!" Wendy cried, around a mouthful of toast, "are you sure that's practical?" She was so excited for an adventure, and as sinfully gorgeous as the dress seemed to be, it would be hardly adequate.

"More practical than a nightdress, I imagine," came Hook's familiar over-educated Eton-Oxford-etc. drawl from the doorway. Wendy turned, and rather unfortunately choked on some tea. "Unless you have any swordsmanship to practice today, a dress will be quite up to your daily routine."

"And if I do? Have some swordsmanship to attempt, I mean?"

"Then I'd rather have you at a disadvantage." Her face must have betrayed disappointment, though, because he amended, "Of course I could have Smee find for you something more...piratical?"

She smiled. "Oh yes, I would like that very much!" She had hoped, after all, she had left the world of purely decorative beauty behind her.

Sometimes she was very naive.

Hook nodded at Smee, who placed the dress back with an obsequious nod and started rummaging again. The captain approached the table, sat down, and after a moment of consideration, started helping her finish her breakfast. She did not find this casual intimacy in the least bit uncomfortable--this was, after all, a pirate ship.

"I trust you slept well?" he asked politely.

"Yes sir, I thank you," she said.

"Ah. Good." He seemed oddly uneasy.

"How about this, Miss?" came Smee, and came forward with somewhat more appropriate clothing. "Got you some proper breeches, and the rest here..." he draped the items over a chair. "Should fit you right, I think!"

Wendy made an appreciative sound. "Oh yes, thank you very much," she said, and smiled at the two men.

Smee smiled back, but didn't make a move. Hook seemed to be staring very pointedly at his crewman. "Well?" Hook said. "Are you finished?"

Smee startled. "Oh! Yes. Yes Cap'n. Best be off, then," and with a breathlessly subservient bow was indeed off.

Hook smirked. "I suppose I will then, too, my dear, while you attire yourself more appropriately.." He downed the rest of his tea like a shot of rum, with the same grimace, and Wendy almost laughed. He excused himself, and she would find the clothes fit perfectly. Like they had been made just for her. If she had known more about the Neverland, this would have unsettled her. It is dangerous to be adopted into such a place. To love something that loves you back too much.

Sometimes you never escape. You don't even want to.

But all Wendy could think about was how deliciously adventurous, thrillingly piratical she looked and felt. She approached the mirror--full length and tarnished metal, of course--and twirled and pulled faces and giggled.

It was like a dream come true.

Yet of course dreams come from the mind, which is the most terrifying thing of all.

Oh your own mind, have you conquered it? Else you end up like poor, lovely. tragic, broken, Hook. Or the Wendy. It is all the same, you know. My darlings.

Wendy Darling, brilliant, beautiful, normal, thoughtful, Wendy Darling. I as the narrator will not reveal the etymology til later on in our mutual narrative. But you should think now of the collective unconscious--and here I reveal too much!

What Wendy did, after Hook left--and how tragic it is, for both such persons to be named after their handicap!--was swirl the hot tea around in her mouth. Cream and sugar made it the most ambiguous of soft beige. Hot, dark, sweet. What else could have prepared her for the beings of the ocean! And yet, What else could have reminded her of stolid, brilliant, beautiful old home?

Tears sprang to her eyes, and like most of the beautiful thoughtless youth of this and every generation, she choked them back, and focused on the present.

********************

Captain Hook strode the deck, waiting for the Wendy to emerge. All shiny new, a pirate. She had shunned his offer before--but of course he could see even then the secret thrill she got from it. The innocent charm of a little girl rebellion. Maybe now something darker. A deeper shiver to the thrill.

He was an early riser anyway, but had made sure to awaken far before his new guest.

He would not have been seen without all his accoutrements. That is to say, seen as just himself, as poor broken James. Not as Himself now, with hook and harness and all that fine lace and velvet. All his buckles. All his chains. What at this point literally completed him. It's safer in prison, after all.

Oh! but one can find beauty in bondage, and it is the safest and most degenerate beauty of all. See his thin decadent lips, see his inky curls around the fine-paper ink-drawn face. We own him, and he loves it, or he would if he were but conscious!

That salt-spray of the sea against the blood-metal of the hook. That gorgeous juxtaposition. The dangers of being the libertine in the Story. But never fear,Wendy will explain it all later to you.

Back to the narrative, of which Wendy is of course guiding us, being the storyteller.

Wendy took but a moment to dress in those pirate clothes all of us have imagined, no really, it was all the reds and blacks and blues and minus that and plus that you have ever imagined, and more, and after she was done choosing she burst through the door with a smile. Obviously all that reluctant decorum had been left aside. Torn from his reverie, he returned the smile, and bowed.

She curtsied, best she could in trousers. "Sir!" she said, "Wendy Darling, here to serve."

The man smiled wanly. "Quite," he said. "Well then, Darling," he said, "approach your captain." She complied smartly and with a straight face. He could not deny this novelty was of no small amusement to him. Hook directed her over to the railing of the ship, facing the island. "Now," he continued. "Look."

She looked.

And oh what an amazing sight the Neverland was! So different off its shore, rather than immersed in the immensity of it. It seemed to live, to pulse, to glow, all on its own, and with color that should surely burn too bright and engulf them all if you stared too long! And what a disaster. All of creation, consumed--the thought jumped into Wendy's mind. Surely that was from a poem somewhere. A prophecy. She would think on it later. Now all she wanted was to stand next to her longtime enemy--close next to him. That sumptuous electric. And gaze upon the island. The whole of her imagination.

Wendy Darling was smiling, but there was something inside that felt a little frightened. She was, after all, in completely uncharted waters. In more way than one.

"And what is it I am supposed to see, Captain?"

She felt him shrug. "The island. Where we will seek the mermaids. I simply wanted to appraise you of two facts. That I do not know what it is you seek of them. And that it will be very dangerous."

Wendy's full lips pursed. "I do know this, sir. And what it is I seek--well. Like I've been told, the mermaids know all."

He turned her head to face his with a pale, bejeweled finger, and hesitated--probably a little taken aback at the surprising intensity of her sky-grey eyes. "That they do, sweet. But how you will withstand them, I do not know."

She held his fingers against her face, ostensibly to remove them, but she ended up holding them there. "As you say, sir. But we are both very capable in our own right, I have no doubt we shall figure it out."

"You _are_ truly a wonder, to be sure" he said, dismissively, and he wished that he did not mean it.

More travel, more transit. What is that aphorism, about never have to worry about where you're going, as long as you're on a boat? These two would have done well to remember it.

They make their way into the rowboats, again, just the two of them. Hook, caught between captain and gentleman, decided to be the latter and row. The pirate was wearing his darkest velvet traveling cloak Wendy remembered from the Black Castle, the girl herself was in a similar garment he provided. It was _cold_ on the sea, in the morning, and bright, and Wendy tried to surreptitiously snuggle as deep into the cloak as possible--as much as for protection against the little gasps of sea-spray and sun, and whippets of wind, as for the sheer sensuousness of the garment. Wendy found herself almost wishing she had chosen the dress, if only for that forbidden shudder of silk across her skin--but Hook had been talking for some time now, and she gave a guilty start.

"Beg pardon?" she said. "I didn't quite catch that." She coughed. "Sir."

Hook cocked an eyebrow and gave her quite a _look_, but seemed more than happy to start over. "What I was _saying,_" he said, "is that while I can take you approximately to where the mermaids dwell--that is, the Grotto--I cannot guarantee their presence, much less their cooperation."

Wendy was surprised. "Surely you've had dealings with them before?"

Hook laughed. "Oh my dear. You think the mermaids would--even if they could, mind you--even countenance the presence of the likes of me?"

"I'm not sure I understand, " she said. "By your own admission you are more in tune with the darker side of things here. With all due reverence, of course. Is it because you are a pirate?"

"Because I am a man," he said.

Splish splash swirl sworl, went the oars in the ensuing silence. Splish splash swirl sworl suck.

If Wendy looked down too long, the water went down forever. If Hook looked at Wendy too long, his lips twisted in the most discomfiting way. Better they both look at the shore.

The Grotto was soon reached, and the captain's sanguine reds and purples turned to black as the trees and overhanging rocks seemed to block all sun, and quite practically turn day to night. Wendy herself was bleached to a porcelain blue, with a frightened look.

Some sweet doll, just begging to be broken, Hook couldn't help but think, amidst the honest dread he felt at being in this place.

Wendy must have sensed something. "You're not frightened!" she said, as if laughing. She was rather appalled that anything could frighten James Hook, but the crocodile. If only the girl knew, this was one and the same.

"Of course not," he snapped, but made his way with some celerity to the shore, and helped her out with the same haste. The man made sure not even his boots approached the water.

Although the Grotto was anything but cheerful, Wendy turned to him with the same frustrated questioning look she'd been sporting for the past few minutes. "I don't understand."

Hook took her hand and kissed it quickly, an outwardly gentle gestured tempered with all asperity. "Far from frightened, my dear. Rather let us say, _respectful._ As I said, this is no place for a man."

"Peter came here all the time," she said archly, without quite realizing what she was saying until the man's eyes glowed that familiar shade, even in the gloom.

"Quite," he spat. "He is, let me remind you, Miss Darling, but a boy, If he is even that."

"I'm sorry," she blurted. She was.

He smiled, not missing a beat. "About what? Now," he said, and put one firm hand on one shoulder, touched the hook firm enough on the other to make hairs on her neck raise up, and turned her around. "Summon your mermaids. I shall wait back here, or they shall never come."

Captain Hook stepped back only a few feet, only to hide himself more in the shadows and shrubbery. Wendy suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable, and at the same time very adult--like she should know what to do and was completely unprepared. Slim white pixie, all forlorn. Like she had felt before, navigating uncharted waters.

Something occurred to her, of Hook's peculiar behavior regarding mermaids. "But why--like a unicorn, perhaps? They won't speak to men?"

Hook paused. "I suppose," he said, "but perhaps I'll explain more later. Suffice to say we very much do not get along. Now, my girl, call the mermaids."

"How?"

Hook's face darkened into a visage very black indeed. "I suggest you figure it out," he said, "before I lose patience."

Wendy grimaced back at him and twirled around, a much easier feat with leather boots on mossy rock than in her bare feet.

She contemplated the water. Honestly she hadn't quite thought this out, in the concrete sense. The glowering man behind her didn't help matters much.

She couldn't blame him for being unsettled by this place, though, especially if the likes of him were not welcome.

The Grotto was not exactly as she remembered it--but then, what was. It was a slippery little inlet, in all blues and greens, purples and blacks. Although it was daytime, as far as she remembered and somewhere far away, here all was dark and if not quite chill, definitely cool. A round, full place, a moon place, with lapping salty water like lips and tongue against mossy black stone--and that harsh resultant ion tang of salt and iron. Almost like blood, actually--some living mess. Liquid dreamstuff here, all hidden opals and sapphire instead of the buffed gold and greens of where they had just come from. Something distressingly secret and dangerous about this place. As chthonian as only the best caves are. Ferns were the primary plant growth here, and reptiles scuttled and slithered just out out sight.

In fact it was very beautiful.

She fancied, as she contemplated the dimension of the water in front of her, that she heard a tick-tick-tick of another dimension--of Time, in this timeless place.

Or it could have just been some crocodile somewhere or other.

(And mermaids, like crocodiles, are dark creatures. As are, occasionally, pirates and not-so-little girls.)

Wendy Darling kneeled down on a rock overhanging the water, and peered in. Pan had had his flute, she remembered, that golden little woodwind with him always. And that tune. Oh how she remembered that tune. Perhaps if she sang it?

Wendy cooed the tune, softly over the water. She did so a few times, waiting longer and longer before each try. Only the ripple of her breath on the water to show for it.

"Well?" the man called snidely from behind her. "Are we quite finished?" He found it slightly annoying how she displayed confusion and discomfort through sheer wilful stubbornness. Still, he just wanted to get out of this place.

She found it privately amusing how he displayed confusion and discomfort through airs of superiority and anger, but decided not to mention it. She just wanted the mermaids.

Eventually, after some minutes of staring into the depths, something occurred to her. Fighting back memories of her last encounter with the mermaids, and their seduction of death incarnate, she very slowly dipped her right hand into the water. Her small fingers cut into the surface soundlessly, and the water was not as cold as she had steeled herself for.

"What are you doing now?" Hook asked.

She hushed him, sharply. She heard him shuffle back and forth a bit in sheer effrontery, but ignored him. Instead she focused very strongly on her hand, her pale hand disappearing into that enchanting darkness of the pool.

"I need you," she whispered. "My sisters, I need you. I beg you, I beg you, I beg you, I must find a way home."

And last of all, Wendy closed her eyes, exhaled, relaxed. "I need you," she said again.

Clicker, splash, clack. The water agitated as slimy lithe bodies swooped above and below the surface of the water and towards the crouching girl. Wendy, lost in concentration, would have noticed nothing had it not been for Hook's cry of surprise, and wonder, at the mottled green fish-women.

Her large eyes flew open and she gasped, and tried to withdraw her hand--except as before, a mermaid grasped it in her own clawed hand, all slick and ichthyoid.

She tried to pull it back, but the mermaid just smiled that gorgeous inscrutable smile they had, and pulled back. Not too far, though, just back into the water, as a sort of point of communion. Wendy's heart leapt. Perhaps they grew less dangerous as one grew up. They did, after all, answer her call.

"Hello," she said, unsure how to address them. There were three, and if possible even more ethereal and terrifying and above all lovely than before.

They did not answer back in words, but instead clicked and squalled like dolphins. Wendy bit her lip, she had rather hoped she would understand them this time around--but before she could call out for Hook, all the strange sounds arranged themselves in her head--

**You should not be here they said. You do not realize the danger**

"I'm sorry!" Wendy cried. "I know, it was probably a mistake--wait, what do you mean?"

**This place will undo you. This man will undo you. The darkness will undo you both**

"What?" was all she could think to ask.

**You will never get home again.** Their beautiful faces seemed implacable, even as the one held her hand gently.

"I must try," she said. "I must--"

**You are both a poison to this place. It is a poison to you. Soon you will understand. But it will be too late. You will never take another step forward. It is beyond you.**

**You are trapped forever now**

**The crocodile will have you both**

**The crocodile will indeed have you both.**

**Perhaps you should come with us instead!**

And with that the Storyteller herself was yanked cruelly forward by the mermaid's, the Siren's, hand. She cried out in terror as she fell forward into the dark water, the mermaid's tails and limbs churning it into a choking maelstrom flooding into her mouth, her nose--she was breathing water now, and choking, gasping--

Wendy managed to surface, and screamed best she could, flailing to keep herself afloat as hands from below--sentient seaweed--grabbed onto her ankles and calfs and waist and arms and started pulling--

The last thing she would see through those terror-wide eyes was dark stone of the grotto--the ferns--the red of the captain's eyes?

Suddenly the water actually did taste of blood, and was churning rather more frantically. The iron grips loosed completely, and she felt the extremely unpleasant sense of slick fish bodies snaking past and around her, and of steel against her back heaving her up and out.

At first all she could do was curl into herself on the blissfully solid rock and retch all the water out of her lungs. Out came all that inky water, made darker no doubt by blood. The thought did not help her composure, and by the end of it all she was crying. If only a little bit. Wendy reeled back after she could breathe freely again, landing not against plant life but stopped on the surprisingly solid body of a kneeling pirate captain. She didn't have the energy to consider propriety, and instead leaned against his chest for support.

He stiffened a bit, but placed his hand against her shoulders and held her against him, supporting her quite serviceably until she had caught her breath. Even then, she didn't move.

"Hook, they _tried_ to _kill_ me," she finally said, so indignant Hook laughed, and Wendy had to join him.

"Never fear my dear," he smiled, "I may have taken one of them down in return." And he held up his hook, still dripping glinting drops of sea-water.

Wendy was silent for a moment. "I cannot condone killing," she said, "but Hook, I think you saved my life."

"Beg pardon, Darling, I _did_ save your life," he said, and chuckled. "I would not be denied my Story, after all. Or, such a pretty little Storyteller," and he pinched her cheek insouciantly.

It was no doubt intended to outrage her and make her aware of the impropriety of their current position, to leap up and scold him, but all Wendy did was bat away his hand. "And what kind of Storyteller would I be if I denied my hero a story?" The only reason she did move was it was very inconvenient to have this sort of conversation not facing one another.

Facing him, their eyes met. Grey and blue both reduced to an eery pale in the odd off-light.

"Captain," she said, as she tossed her soaking hair from her face. "I'm afraid they gave me bad news."

"So you could understand them?" Hook looked intrigued.

"Of course. But Hook--they said..." and she swallowed, and looked down.

"What? It cannot be _so_ terrifying," and he smiled.

"They said, in short, that we were never to escape. On a fixed path, as it were." She couldn't seem to look him in the eye for the last part. "They said that the crocodile would get us both."

Hook shot up standing, blind panic in his eyes and voice. "_What did you say."_

Wendy rose too. "Of course," she said, "What do mermaids know?"

They know all, of course.

The trip back to the Jolly Roger was silent. Had the two not been so preoccupied, they might have noticed the glimmer of gold following them _all_ the way back.

A/N

So I'm so very sorry. Full time job combined with bad habits, etc. And this was weirdly an extremely difficult chapter to write, which is I guess why it's as long as my other stories. True, I went through several drafts because I kept trying to write inebriated which is just a really epically bad idea all round and will never be attempted again.

But all credit for this update must go to the truly fabulous (I hesitate to say the obvious adjective) Katherine NotGreat. She is a doll, a gem, a wonder, please go read her gorgeous stories. Darling, you're helping our James make it through.

And if I'm at it please go check out Icelands too, who is one of our geniuses actually and also writes amazing stories. Please go read! Say Dollfayce sent you.

BUT YOU GUYS. It's Christmas. And talk about gorgeous sensory experiences. I'm in a fur blanket in front of a fire next to a 12 foot Christmas tree and it's SNOWING outside and I have spiced egg nog and it's CHRISTMAS. I am so happy.

Just, ah, thought I'd share. This story's coming along, I feel, if it took a really long chapter to kind of set up some more drama. Anyway. Coming up! Drama! Crocodiles! Kisses! Peter! Redemption! Love! Tea! Let me know what you think!

As always, I remain with the utmost of love,

Dollfayce


	7. Now We are Frightened

WHEN YOU ARE MOST FRIGHTENED

The incident with the mermaids left both the Captain and the Storyteller quite shaken. Although it had been sunny when they entered the grotto, as they left the world seemed now suffused with the same twilight gloom, that self-same feeling of dread.

The Neverland was certainly a more peculiar place than the enchanting though thoroughly confusing place of her youth.

Completely and politely disregarding their brief although necessitated intimacy, Hook had insisted on being the gentleman and escorting her back. He paused at the beach, next to their boat.

"Miss Darling. I would not have us on open water in this state," he said.

"I'm fine, Captain," she replied.

He sighed. "I do not think I am," he said simply.

Wendy was strangely unsettled by his admission of weakness, the way a child gets when it sees its parent cry. "Well. We could stay here for I while, I am sure..."

He was sneering now, into the brush. "That very well could be worse," he said. "Best we try to get to the Jolly Roger as soon as possible."

Wendy realized she had been on his arm longer than necessary, and with some fluster disengaged herself. He did not seem to notice. Still, she made sure to walk purposefully aways a bit, looking out at the sea to the ship. "At least it's not far," she offered.

"That is meaningless."

"Are you really that disturbed by the mermaids?" she said. "They were speaking nonsense. I think, rather, that they simply wanted to murder me! I cannot imagine why."

Hook grinned, a lovely, lovely lupine grin she had not seen on him before. "It is no doubt because you are young and free. And very, very beautiful."

Wendy blushed, despite herself. "I do not think that is quite true."

"As you will. It is of no matter. Into the boat with you."

The trip back to the Jolly Roger was tense. Fraught. Wendy was indeed shaken by what the mermaids had told her, but was more shaken by Hook's demeanor than by the omens of doom. The further they got onto the sea, the more troubled he became. He was more pale than usual, and more stiff. His mouth tensed downward, and his rowing was an almost frantic chop-chop-splash through the water.

She had offered to row, based upon his handicap and obvious state of mind, but he had waved away her offer, saying drily he had managed up to now without her and could surely go about the business of a sailor without the aid of a _young_ _lady_, of all things.

Mere minutes after they had set out, the rather garishly bloody sun had set and twilight itself was falling.

Wendy commented on the fact, in surprise. "Surely we were not there that long, Captain?"

He looked about, his lip curling. "Who knows," he said unhelpfully. "When one deals at any length with the Neverland, especially its more, ah, primal aspects, we cannot say."

Hook's blue eyes darted out on the blackening water. "And time is always short, here."

"I'm not sure I understand," she said, and she was beginning to feel panic. "You seem so--well, troubled. They are just mermaids?"

Between chops and splashes the frightened man answered, "It is not them I am concerned with at the moment."

"Oh! You mean the croc--"

"Don't you dare," he hissed, "speak of it when we are in the open like this. So vulnerable."

It had all taken a quite unexpected turn for the worse. Wendy found herself wanting to turn back and head for the beach as quickly as possible. Anything to avoid this open sea, this violent man's violent fear.

This waiting.

Her own voice dropped to a whisper. "But sir," she said, "Cannot one detect its approach by the curious ticking? And we have seen no sign of it up until now."

"Oh my dear," he said. "Oh my dear girl. Here is one thing you must know. Recall the common wisdom concerning most beasts, that they only attack when frightened?"

"Yes, I suppose I've heard that. About serpents and the like. And sometimes," and she could not entirely remove the venom from her own voice, "well, sometimes my mother has told me some men are like that."

Hook barked a laugh. "Ha. Your mother is a wise woman. But while beasts are that way--"

and here he fixed his gaze on her, and she was most frightened. His dark hair hung in strands and sopping curls around his face, much like the dark mermaids, and his wet black lashes seemed only to intensify his gaze--

"Demons, my dear, are not like the common vermin. Demons only attack when _you yourself are frightened_."

"Demons!" she cried. "But what do I have to fear from demons here!"

"You are no longer a child," he snapped. "You are, for all intents and purposes, a woman. An adult. And now you know that the world is full of terrible and evil and baffling things, of the most profound cruelty and desperation, you've just never noticed them before. But now you do. And you see they are everywhere."

Wendy thought suddenly of her father, of his clear serious gaze as he told her clear and serious that she must grow up, must face the world, and that dread she felt as she tried to come up with an answer, the only sound in the room that tick-tick of his prized silver pocket watch--

"Captain, that's why I came to the Neverland. It is why I wanted to come, to escape."

"Foolish girl," he whispered. "You cannot escape what has already found you."

Tick-tock-tick-tock.

The captain froze, dropped the oars, raised himself up. Wendy felt frozen herself. Summoning all her courage, she turned to look behind her.

Almost on cue, the water beyond swirled against its natural flow. What was choppy was glassy, what was mild swirled in mad eddy. Something huge and black and monstrous rose from the ocean, with white teeth and dead eyes.

It was too late. Their time was up.

It was moving so fast, so large.

"Oh, Captain!" she cried.

He didn't answer. He didn't even seem to hear her.

She lurched herself forward, not daring herself to keep her balance if she stood. She steadied herself on him, grabbing, trying to pull him down.

"Captain! Captain, captain, we must row, we must flee, oh please!" Already the boat was rocking and churning with the force of the beast's approach. Every tick was an echo of her own racing heartbeat--the salt she was tasting had the warm tang of teardrops, not sea spray.

Still he was unresponsive, even as he knelt next to her.

"I can't--" he finally whispered. "It's too late, it's found me again--"

And as Wendy had never been more frightened in her life, suddenly she had never been more angry.

"You _stupid_ man, I shall not die with you!" As best she could, she pushed him to the side and grabbed the oars herself. She was too terrified to fly, she knew, but she had all the strength panic confers and she could certainly row!

Although the Jolly Roger, which had seemed so very close, now seemed miles and lifetimes away.

The demon dove, its tail flicking the water as it swirled close around it.

Everything, for one black moment, was still, except for Wendy's frenzied rowing and almost-stifled sobs.

Hook finally seemed to come to his senses--he blinked several times, reappraised the situation. Looked at Wendy, looked at the ship.

Looked down off the side, into the depths, looked back at the storyteller with all the sadness of a broken heart.

"Oh my girl," he said. "I am sorry."

Wendy paused, to respond. But it was much too late for that.

The boat lifted so impossibly, so hilariously, so high into the air that Wendy was almost to surprised to realize she was screaming. She tumbled back, into the black chill of the water, as the boat was chewed in half with a tremendous shotgun crack she heard even as she struggled to surface.

She gasped only a few breaths before she was again torn under in the wake of the obscenely immense reptile as it dove once more. When she opened her eyes, she saw more crocodile than ocean. Cold water and bumpy reptile flesh and sharp planks all jostled for control about her.

Finally she managed to surface again. She could not see the crocodile. She could not see the ship.

She could not see the captain.

"Help!" she cried, unthinking. "Help!"

Wildly she turned, trying to get her bearings. There--there was the ship. There was the beach. Which was closer? Probably the ship--she should set off for that, certainly--

Something about her leg, though, wasn't working properly as she tried to swim. She kicked, and regretted it instantly.

Something was very wrong indeed--oh that seemed to be a very _large _gash. It certainly looked painful. Certainly seemed to be losing a lot of blood. Wendy wondered why it didn't hurt--

Swimming was going to be very difficult indeed. In fact--much of anything--

It occurred to Wendy how very deep the ocean was. Why, in Neverland, who is to say it has a bottom?

It could just go on forever. Never-ending.

She felt herself slipping. Her time, maybe, was up.

There was a light, a gold flash, and arm holding hers, helping her up, helping her fly.

"Oh!" she said dreamily. "Is it time to go to heaven?"

Peter laughed. "No, you silly Wendy!" he said in his little-boy voice. "We're going home to the Neverland!"

She couldn't help but laugh too.


	8. Evergreen Renegade

EVERGREEN RENEGADE

It had been a false dusk, actually, of cloud and mist instead of nightfall. As Peter Pan and Wendy Darling flew through the air beyond the grotto,the sun shone, and he sparkled, and she struggled to keep up.

They were hand in hand like they used to be, but his hand was so much smaller than before, a hot grubby little boy's hand. Even so. That she was actually with her Peter again after so many years. So much dreaming. It was quite exhilarating.

The throbbing of her leg and the uncertain fate of her captain _did _however lend a pall to her pristine moment. In fact Wendy was getting quite fed up with all this--of being carted and flown and yanked and clawed from place to place; of people threatening if not her person then her very personality. She did not remember the Neverland being so grotesque and frightening.

Perhaps it was shock, or perhaps the leg was not as bad as she thought, but Wendy barely felt a thing as golden Peter laughed his sparkle laugh and shot shining through the air, pulling her behind careless like a toy. Even as they rolled to a stop. The girl became a tousle of twig and leaf and salt.

"Oh!" she cried at the rough landing. "Peter!" It took her a moment to note the ramshackle structure they were standing near, all covered in vine and roses. The Wendy-house.

Her house.

"I found you, I found you, I found you!" he crowed, still circling. "the Lady-bird, the Wendy!"

She found she could stand, with some effort, although the wound would need tending later. "Yes," she laughed, "you have found me!"

Peter landed in front of her, smiling, exulting. "And who are you?" he enquired brightly.

Wendy was taken aback. "Beg pardon? Boy, do not you remember your Wendy?"

"Yes, I do see you are a Wendy. But, I don't believe we have met," he said politely. "I am Peter Pan." The boy bowed stiffly, as he imagined gentlemen must do.

"And I am Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she said, suddenly so very sad. "Peter, you took me from my window--you--we--you just called me Wendy."

Nothing was registering on the face of the boy except boredom. "Yes," he said. "I assume you have come to be my mother, like the other Wendys."

Wendy cleared her throat. "Where are your lost boys?" she tried. "Tootles? Slightly? Nibs?"

"Oh," he said, all business. "The boys. Ah. I expect they are around here. I think they might have been here yesterday."

Wendy sighed. Was this Peter time or Neverland time or both? Wendy recalled what Smee had said, before, that he had seen her not these three days past. Yet at the same time Peter did not seem to remember her at all--not herself, anyway, just the idea of her, like she was some dream or character from a story. Perhaps all of the former were true. Time and reality both seemed so liquid in the Neverland.

As if to prove her point, wind rustled sudden and bright through the twisting flora, undulating it all like a fever dream. The young woman felt a little nauseated. She took a seat on a nearby stone.

"Peter," she said. "I think my leg is hurt. Perhaps we could..." and there she trailed off. She had no idea what she could do, or especially how Peter could help.

"Is it?" he cried, boredom forgotten. He gamboled over, crouching to examine her leg. "Oh it is, look at that!" He whistled low in appreciation, obviously deeply impressed. "Wounded in battle, I suppose!"

"Oh yes!" she said. "But Peter, I shall need a bandage!"

He jumped up. "Of course you do! And I am your noble fellow warrior, and you have fallen in battle, and our brothers have deserted us! I am the only one who can save you, and I shall patch you up best I can!" Grinning mad, he leapt into the air, scooping the ground for leaves.

"Peter..." she said quietly. "Oh Peter, this isn't a game, I cannot have leaves for a poultice and lake-water for medicine as we used to!"

He does not hear. He would not have understood.

But Wendy had another plan. Even as Peter searched (loudly and happily, talking to himself in character about this twig being that ancient remedy and yes, yes, that leaf would do _quite_ nicely,) Wendy looked closely in the dim of the surrounding brush. The subtle rustle, the sudden sparkle. Oh, _there _she was.

"Tinkerbell!" she says loudly. "Do come out, my dear!"

And the poor thing does emerge, gyrating and chittering like that little chronically furious hummingbird she remembers. For old times sake, (Wendy assumes,) Tinkerbell darts forward to give a good tug at her hair. The young woman laughs in delight, which was clearly not the anticipated reaction--in fact clearly infuriating the little pixie.

At this new development Peter's game is forgotten. He alights next to Wendy, laughing uproariously at the fairy.

"What is she saying, Peter?" Wendy asks slyly.

Peter stops laughing, looking a little embarrassed. "Oh. Um...uh...I think she says she remembers you."

"Well I should hope so!" the girl sniffs. "I certainly remember such a beautiful lady as her!"

Tinkerbell lands on a nearby branch, preening.

"Perhaps," Wendy said, "the lady might know a way to heal my leg more quickly? Of course it would take an extremely intelligent, hideously brave soul to go ask the Indians for that lovely tree bark they put on wounds, if I remember, and a quite clever and charming individual indeed to talk them into giving me some of those skins they use to bandage..."

Peter was insulted. "Why ask Tinkerbell?" he said. "She's nothing but a pixie!"

"Why Peter," Wendy said, smiling. "Are you saying you yourself are brave and clever enough to to this for me?"

"But I shall prove it, my Lady-Wendy!" he cried, jetting off into the sky. The pixie followed, and Wendy was left quite alone. It might have been her imagination, but it did seem a good deal less bright after he had left. A trick of the sun.

Ascertaining again that the most immediate danger she was in from her leg was one of discomfort, she could not help but approach the Wendy-house.

A sickly sweet smell, vine and roses. What had once been large enough to sleep in was now only large enough for her to scoop herself into an awkward sitting position. Vegetation was taking over dead wood and leaf, remaking the old eroded frame into the forest again. Wendy felt peculiarly distraught over the state of her house. It was supposed to be beautiful. It was supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be exactly how she remembered it.

It was supposed to be exactly how she imagined it.

She almost wanted to cry, which would only confuse Peter upon his return. But she looked at her legs before her, shapely and pale and adult and yet stained with blood, incongruous in her innocent little shelter of her youth. This was not a place for her anymore, and as soon as she admitted it tears did spring to her eyes. She even sobbed, but only briefly, and only a little, the tears cutting little lines across that dried veneer of salt from sweat and sea-water. (Oh but she must look a sight!)

Things moved outside the little house, outside her field of vision, soft and sinister

Wendy knew why she was crying. She was grieving. All of a sudden, she could see the monsters, all around, that had always been there, that were even now waiting--and this little place was so open and so vulnerable. She could not stay here or she would be destroyed. She wondered she never saw it before. She had a feeling if she stays in one place too long, the crocodile will come. She understood, crouched in her little house against the darkest of elements, why Hook preferred his boat.

Peter and Tinkerbell soon returned, Peter knocking at her door and waiting as if she could not see him through the piecemeal door. They had done a wonderful job providing supplies and even secondhand instruction, and Wendy's leg is soon patched up.

"I have saved you," Peter declared, and Wendy agrees. "Now what shall we do?" he asks.

"Sometimes we would have adventures," she said. "Sometimes I would tell you stories. Sometimes I was your mother."

Peter considered her words, creasing his brow, his merry gold eyes winking in the light.

"We shall do all of these," he said finally.

And they did. But the adventures of the Boy and the Storyteller are better chronicled elsewhere, and anything that happened this visit was all packed cozy and jostling into a single afternoon. Wendy remembers how perfect her bright boy is, and therefore how cruel. How heartless, her perfect child.

Soon it is time for bed; or so Wendy says. She says it very sharply, and more than once, so as to bring both boy and pixie to attention. They are already below the tree, in Peter's home. Wendy must stoop a little, most places, though it must be said it doesn't bother her in the least. This little forgotten place is much too dear to her, if in a surprised distant way. Like a lost childhood doll rediscovered in the attic.

Wendy sits by Peter's bed, where the roots all curve down. The pixie has already been dispatched to her boudoir. "Have you put away your things?" she asks the boy softly.

"Yes, Wendy," he said, bravely trying not to sound groggy.

She does ache to stroke his tousled hair, but remembers his aversion to touch. "Very well. Have you taken your medicine?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" The flower petal is still on the tree stump, quite full of water.

"Well," he amends. "Perhaps I have forgotten."

Wendy watches with a smile as he chokes down the water. Always her dramatic Peter.

"Goodnight, Peter," she says. "It _was_ so very nice to see you again."

"Goodnight, Wendy. I shall not forget you again," he lies, and closes his eyes.

He is already drifting off. Wendy decides to take a quite calculated risk. She leans over, softly, quietly, making sure not to let her long hair brush his face. He has that little-boy smell of fresh apples, summer afternoons, all the forgotten battles of a single day. Moving so slow, so as not to startle, she lets her lips brush his cheek. Perhaps more than a brush. Perhaps she lets them linger.

It is not a real kiss, of course. It is given, not shared. Peter is, after all, just a little boy.

And she would not have it any other way.

And she certainly cannot stay here any longer.

Wendy made her way out of the house. It was a bit of a squeeze, but she managed.

Of course! the fairies would be dancing. They were all around, all aglow, and Wendy's lips parted in wonder.

In the glow, she could see a silhouette of a man leaned beautiful and moonlight-blue against a tree, watching her. Waiting for her.

It was a man of sorrow. A man of feeling.

Her own Captain.

*****

A/N--Oh my darlings, I am back again. I do hope you are enjoying where this is going. I must admit I am enjoying writing it. I'm sorry I lost of track of everybody. Review or not, let me know how you are doing!

With all my love and best wishes,

Dollfayce


	9. Fairy Dance Redux

FAIRY DANCE REDUX

Wendy Darling had said goodbye to Peter Pan for the last time. When she left the house under the tree, she found someone.

Someone in the dark forest, surrounded by the floating gold. Waiting for her. This was both familiar and unfamiliar territory. That is, Wendy had been here before.

It was Hook, though, of course, waiting for her. It could have been no one else. She could make out his pale features, blue-white under the moon, and that jagged silhouette was unmistakable. He was alive. He appeared unharmed. Wendy experienced a delight at these facts that would have been unheard of, had she been telling a story to a child. Maybe not so strange had she been telling the story to herself.

"Captain!" she cried.

She ran, tearing across the underbrush and only catching her feet on a few branches, until she had closed the distance between them. She threw her arms around him, pulling herself tight against him, feeling for the first time the breadth of his back and shoulders, the smooth of his coat, the scratch of precious metals and stones on his lapels, the way he smelled of sea and cinnamon. Delicious--without thinking she rubbed her face experimentally against his chest before she realized the shocking impropriety of her actions and pulled away, aghast.

"Oh, I do apologize!" she said. "Only, I see that you are alive," she amended.

"Miss Darling," he said softly, with humor. "I am alive, as I also see you are. What a pleasant circumstance!"

"Yes!" she agreed, a little too quickly and a little too loud. What he must think of her! "It is. Quite pleasant!"

Then again, it occurred to her. He was not only a gentlemen, but also a pirate.

"Captain," she enquired. "Might I ask of you a favor?"

"Of course."

"Very well. Might I embrace you again? I am so very pleased to find you alive and uninjured."

He paused, and looked at down at her. She almost flinched. His eyes were so very blue. So very entrancing.

Was this how it was supposed to be?

The Captain was entertaining similar thoughts about the young woman, except perhaps his thoughts were running more along the lines of the peculiar luminosity of her eyes and face, the fullness of her lips.

"But of course," he said. "I would be honored."

"Because I am so glad, you realize."

"I do."

Softly, slowly, she put out her two white arms, brushing his chest. He made no move himself, but let her initiate every action. Perhaps out of deference. Perhaps so as not to frighten her. To lure her in. See the haughty curve of his lips, his nose, his brow--perhaps softening, perhaps not.

As a man of feeling, she knew, he was adept at masking motive. She had told enough stories about his deceitful ways.

She also knew of his broken heart.

Wendy moved slowly, deliberately. The scent in her nostrils--the dark expanse of the sea, the curious rush of awakening from a very deep dreaming.

"How?" she whispered. "How did you survive the crocodile?"

"It seems the Neverland still will not grant me rest."

"You mean you--?"

"Never you fear." He said it quickly, quietly, the pain of the statement was not hers to know. She was quite close, his face against her hair.

So his whisper was quite close to her ear, and more than a little agreeable.

This—this was not like any other embrace she had shared before. And yet it did not seem strange at all. Wendy felt his lean strong arms wrap around her, his hook against her, that sharp in the small of her back--tilting her up just so, her breasts and ribcage now against his, her legs--

These were practiced hands, so to speak.

She looked up, found herself staring into those eyes she had always found so entrancing--now red with some fire she did not know.

The Captain seemed to sense, correctly, that the girl was perhaps a little overwhelmed. He released her, without further comment.

Without their voices to break it, there was near silence in the great forest. Just those golden fairies spinning like fireflies, the soft bells of their passing.

"How did you find me?" Wendy asked.

He tilted his head, the black curls falling careless against his face. Almost feminine. "It was no mystery. I have found you here before."

Wendy tilted her own head. "I do not recall!"

"No," he said. "You were--both, I daresay--unaware of my presence. I found you and...you and the boy," he spat, "here, dancing." He looked up, at the fairies, as if remembering.

Wendy felt strangely exposed. "You watched us dance!"

"Yes. It is an unhappy memory."

"Why?"

"Because it is my habit to roam the dark nighttime, sometimes," he started offhand, as if light insomnia were nothing to be concerned with--but Wendy knew why. She had told his story a hundred times. Hook, like her, could dread the night, a long stretch of dark where he was unable to find solace.

Unable to rest. Utterly alone. She knew the feeling well.

"You see," he continued. "Occasionally I cannot sleep. I cannot rest. So I walk, and wander. Looking for one enemy, fleeing another. And I stumble upon Peter--the boy! Of all the blithering fatuous things--to have found himself a Wendy! And that they were flying!" He said it quietly, without meeting her gaze. As if he were reminding himself, not telling her.

"It is not such an unusual talent, flying." Wendy was choosing to not dwell on the significance of possessing a Wendy, so she chose her words badly. She forgot the good Captain was more than a little sensitive about his general impotence when it came to flight.

Hook jerked out of his reverie, looking at her. "But you see I cannot fly. My heart is too heavy."

"It is only the heartless who can fly," Wendy said, with some certainty, and wondered at herself.

Hook wondered too. "And where did you hear that?"

"I'm not sure. It is something I know. It seems like it is something I have always known."

"What does it mean?"

"I don't know yet. You did bring me here to tell stories, or have you forgotten?"

"I have not. But, perhaps," he said thoughtfully, maybe hopefully. "In the meantime, given these lovely and familiar circumstances, I myself might take this dance?"

Wendy laughed. "Are you certain? It will not change the circumstances, that you were angry and I was miserable--or maybe the other way round. It will not be be the same."

"Of course it won't," he said, with a little sneer. "Foolish girl. That is what will make it...interesting. What is that they say? Ah yes. Art is trying to recapture what was never yours in the first place."

She only smiled, privately, knowingly, and took his proffered arms, proffered her own body. Foolish man.

It started slow, the dance, and uncertainly. The brush was thick, and her shoes inadequate. She was intimidated, but only a little. He was reticent, but only slightly. Neither one of them had danced with someone intriguing in such a long time.

And see!

The Captain and the Storyteller danced, to music teasing just at the edge of consciousness. Some liminal waltz. Familiar and unfamiliar territory. That is, she had been here before, but never quite like this.

He was nothing if not practiced, the captain. He knew how to put his hand just so, and guide her like so, and their legs touched and sometimes his narrow hips brushed her stomach, and there seemingly were no fairies, just starry golden points in this forbidden dreamland, this Neverland that was more dangerous than she ever could have imagined.

That dance was a ritual of something much more dark and secret, and not something to do for a conversation. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to become part of him.

The feelings were sudden, and violent, and truly terrifying.

"Hook!" she said suddenly. "I am frightened."

They stopped. But they did not part. Not yet.

"Of me?" he asked, his face as dark as she had ever seen it.

"No," she said. "Well, perhaps. But I do not think so." After her lead, they began again. They moved together, step, step, slide. It was all blues and greens and blacks now, and only a little red.

"You are not frightened! How strange!'

Her heart skipped. "Should I be frightened of you?"

"I can't imagine why you wouldn't be. I am quite terrible, and I will almost certainly hurt you, whether by choice or chance. But I would not be unduly concerned about that."

"Then why is it strange?"

"I am quite terrified of you."

She laughed. A pirate, frightened of her! Of course, she was quite fearsome on the battlefield, and quite resourceful, but he was at least her match if not more.

Then she realized he was probably talking about something different.

They did not stop dancing, and she focused instead on the way he held her, which was in fact a delicious thing for a girl of her temperament to contemplate. It recalled, if a little, the utterly condescending touch she remembered. The way he led her around, offered ironically an arm or hand. The curiously exciting way he had brushed her face or lips whenever he pleased, how he held her tight when it was in his interests to frighten her.

But of course this was not the same now. He still sneered and laughed, and there was always a gentle curl of irony--or was it cruelty?--about his lip. But he was not dismissive, possessive, degrading as before. At least it did not feel this way. The men seemed to garner genuine joy from their contact. Genuine gratification. He lingered longer.

And she responded. They had been so very close. Once upon a time. She had known him, after all, her entire life. In one way or another.

He had known her for several lifetimes.

She pressed herself closer, felt him respond in kind.

Strangely, although her feet were on the ground, she felt like she was flying.

As before, as if on cue--just when things were getting interesting, and intimate--the fairies fled. This time they stopped dancing for good. And parted, and looked, and waited.

All this after saying goodbye to Peter! Who knew the Neverland could be so interesting, such a fantastic adventure. I have said good-bye to Peter, she thought. I think you must, too. This is not a place for living. She told him as much, and he looked away.

"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps you should return home after all." He seemed to be very far away, all of a sudden.

"And was I such poor company?" she said, but she knew the answer. "Perhaps I will," she continued, cruelly, and started to fly away.

Or at least tried to. She found herself completely land-borne, and that was almost more terrifying than the realization why.

"Oh dear," she said. "Oh--oh dear. I fear I have become quite entangled with you, Captain!" And yet something about it felt right, felt correct, like puzzle pieces fitting in a story. Like when she thought of the perfect way for the robber to escape, the perfect way for the heroine to entrap him. The perfect ending for her lovers. It had been a long time coming.

James Hook did not appear nearly so delighted. With the departure of the fairies it was dark, and shadows were sharp gashes across his severe face. As if he had seen a ghost; or was one.

"It is troubling news," he said. "For how shall I return you home?"

"Home?" the young woman laughed. "Who said anything about that?"

"Miss Darling. Wendy," he amended. "You must return at once. While, it must be said, you still can. I can only keep you as a prisoner. As--well, as anything else, I fear very much you will not escape. That you will become part of this place, this story. That you will become trapped and know only this purgatory!" His face was solemn, and his voice even more so.

"I shall do no such thing!" she said. "It is true, I think, that I cannot leave without you. You would haunt me until I returned, and we would be right back where we started." Wendy, in many ways, was much stronger than Hook.

Hook smiled, slow and genuine. "You would--but no. How can you help me, except by telling me my own end? That is all I want anymore."

The young woman paused. Puzzle pieces were indeed interlocking in her vibrant mind. Things were becoming at least slightly more clear. And if she could not in fact see the end, she could make a fair guess as to what the next chapter might be. Although, she knew, Hook would not be pleased.

Wendy put a hand out, brushed his cheek, and smiled. He reached up too, and held it there with his good hand. His only hand.

"You want the end?" she asked. "Good Captain. We are nowhere near the end. First--"

She smiled bright and bold as any of her brave heroines. "We must defeat the crocodile, of course."

A/N

It is only because I did not sell my old computer immediately that I have this chapter. I have no idea why ten was double posted. Good heavens. This is embarassing.

I hope this makes a good deal more sense.

Love,

Dollfayce


	10. Sinnerman

SINNERMAN

PART THE FIRST

Oh sinnerman.

Sinnerman, the sea it rages. The grave will not hold you. The sea will not have you, the grave will not hold you. That maybe this was hell.

Kill the crocodile indeed! Hook scoffed to himself. Why, it couldn't be done.

(The sea, it rages!)

To tell the truth, James Hook had long since stopped contemplating the whys and hows of the Neverland. His animosity towards the Boy, his terror of the Clock. Why he could never leave. It had just been so long. Surely, if the Boy was not the sole enemy of his life and his happiness, he would not hate him so? Surely the Crocodile, traced with that damnable ever-present ticking timepiece, had always been after him?

Surely, if he could have left, he already would have?

He knew only himself. A once magnificent gentlemen, reduced to wounded predator. And make no mistake, he was a predator.

On the way back to the ship, Captain Hook considered all of these things carefully. Perhaps he had been taking a way of life for granted he did not have to. Or, perhaps he had grown so inured to the torments of Hell that some great Satan had sent yet another fresh torture in the form of a beautiful Wendy. He refused to say angel. She was just a girl. Or rather, a young woman.

A beautiful young woman. Why kill a crocodile when there was much more luscious prey at hand?

Such thoughts kept him silent, while she rambled on.

"You see," she said, clinging to the sides of the little boat; while wind and salt-spray mussed her hair, "I have been thinking very hard on the rules of the Neverland, and I believe this is the next course of action that must be taken. Something--some fundamental change, you know? And you will be free, and so will I, and then we can return home!"

"Home?"

"England, at least," she said. "I imagine we can find you fine arrangements. You will be ever so popular, being a real live pirate. Oh. Only we won't tell anyone that, because you will be hanged. Do they still hang pirates, I wonder?"

Hook rather thought they did. "Of course not! How silly."

"Yes, I suppose it is. I suppose also you will want to write books. I certainly would, if I had all your adventures!"

"Quite," he said.

Wendy either did not notice or did not care about his terseness. She seemed also unaffected by the blasted boy, although of course that's who she was with. The Neverland was an infinite space, but not so large if you really got down to it. Hook did not want to spoil the moment by bringing him up, so instead he simply let her talk.

She burbled excitedly of all her mad plans of crocodile-killing on the way back. He dismissed it as so much girlish madness. The crocodile could not be killed.

They drew near the Jolly Roger. Captain Hook stood, began shouting fierce orders at the men--cruel without being indecent, as they were in the presence of a lady. The men obeyed Hook immediately, something that they had been doing forever, as far as they were concerned.

Before they boarded, Hook turned to Wendy, his sharp gaze silencing her. "Wendy," he said. "You must look inside yourself for this answer--but if you get on this ship completely of your own volition, I will of course protect you to the last inch of my life, but I cannot guarantee your safety. I cannot guarantee you will ever get home. If you do this, you become a pirate, and everything that goes along with it. Do you understand?"

Some part of him wanted her to say no, to stick out her tongue and laugh and fly away.

She did not. "And now who's a fool?" she said quietly. "I am in the Neverland, and I am not a child. I can no longer fly, thus I am already a pirate."

He gave his hand, along with a rakish sort of grin that must have had all the young ladies swooning when he was younger, and helped her up. He followed.

Just as before, the men were appropriately deferential to both her and the captain and made little eye contact. He was happy to know of her comfort on the ship, as she preceded him into their shared room without another thought. And without another thought, unfortunately, he pulled out a chair for her and went to the cabinet and poured them both some rum. It had, after all, been a hard day.

Oh but her look as he handed it to her, her eyes scared and her mouth open--what would it mean if she accepted? And her a lady! Her look when he handed it to her, without thinking, pretty clearly told him that he had misjudged their relationship.

"Forgive an old pirate, Miss," he said, smoothly, smiling, retracting the glass. "My ship's hospitality mostly caters to men like myself. It is of course a pleasure to have a young woman like yourself aboard, and I'm sure Mr. Smee could be persuaded to find us some tea--"

"Perhaps just a sip of wine, if you have it, sir," she said.

Now it was he who was taken aback. "Of course," he said. "I have just the thing." He turned his back to her and poured her a mild, sweet vintage he had procured on some outlandish adventure he could no longer remember. He took more time than was strictly necessary, as it occurred to him they were presently occupying the sleeping quarters for them both, and since addressing it would be loathsome on several levels he knew neither of them would, and they would both end up sleeping there tonight.

Although, it was not a wholly unpleasant thought.

If she brought it up, it would admit in words that could not be taken back exactly why it would be inappropriate--since they were both pirates and all--and what real fun they could get up to otherwise.

She, either through naivete or wisdom, did not bring this up. Hook handed her the goblet--and how pretty it was, clear crystal with blood, reflecting all the candlelight, the red he could feel threatening in his eyes!

"Well, have you?" she said, obviously repeating herself.

Hook snapped to. "Beg pardon. Have I what?" He sat down next to her, near to her.

Wendy took an experimental sip, and did not grimace. "Have you never tried to leave the Neverland? For forever, I mean."

Hook started to sneer and assure her that he is not stupid, not him, and realized he would be lying.

"I...I believe so," he said. "I must have. Correct? Or else why would I be here? I do know, whatever I do--whatever happens--I always end up here. I do not believe there is an escape."

"That is ridiculous."

"Is it?" Hook growled, and Wendy was frightened. "And what do you know of hell, little girl? Of life without end, with no change, no release, no end, no escape?"

"That is not what I meant--"

"Of course not," Hook said, sneering. He almost exploded at her, then, right there, but that would have been bad form. It's not as if he had a reason why, other than a lifetime of indulging a bad temper.

"What I meant," Wendy said softly, "is merely that there must be an escape. There is always a way out. What a poor story we would have on our hands otherwise!"

Hook smiled, a decidedly more sinister version of his earlier smile, more befitting a man of his age and experience. "Cheers," he said, and laughed. Wendy smiled, only a little, and Hook was rather embarrassed by his outburst.

"I must apologize again, Miss Darling. Jill. Wendy. What sobriquet would you prefer, incidentally, now that you are a dastardly pirate? I did tell you we'd call you anything you like. I was not lying about that."

"Wendy," the girl said. "You may call me Wendy." She paused. "Red-Handed Jill to the men, of course."

"That is only proper," Hook agreed. "Well then, Wendy, what I mean to say is, while that might make a good story for well-behaved children, the villain must always be punished. And here I am. I do not believe there is an escape. I escaped to this place, and since it granted me that I do not wish it wants me to leave. Perhaps I am being punished for escaping what I should not have."

"And what would that be?"

Hook smiled, or a sort of smile, as he saw in his mind's eye in no particular order-- a woman's dark hair, a child's pleading eyes, the life of privilege and responsibility laid out before him--something he had not considered in what could have been centuries for all he knew. "I don't remember," he lied.

"I escaped here too," Wendy said.

"I know."

"So did Peter."

"Did he? I remember him here, always."

"I wonder," Wendy said, "how truly happy Peter is. To never grow up. To never know love."

"Does that trouble you, my dear? I shall kill him then, and put us both out of our misery."

Wendy raised such an eyebrow.

"Or also we could kill the crocodile," Hook offered drily. "Another very viable option."

"Perhaps we should forget the crocodile, given the disturbingly eternal nature of things on this island," Wendy said.

He raised his glass in agreement. "Ah! I couldn't agree more."

"Good," Wendy said, finishing her drink. "Then you will have no objections to setting off tomorrow--just sailing, mind you--and seeing if we can escape the bounds of Neverland?"

Hook was silent.

"Is that not..." she trailed off. "We don't have to, of course."

"Have I tried that before?" Hook asked out loud. "I don't remember."

"The men wouldn't know, would they? Of course not," she said, at his scornful look.

"It is worth trying, I suppose," he said. "You are of the opinion--from the Story's point of view, of course--that this has a chance of being successful?" He was taken aback by the rush of desperation that accompanied the question. So much trust to place in a young woman.

"I am," she said.

"Then it is decided."

She smiled, and he could not help but smile back.

Soon Wendy was politely trying not to yawn, but it was to no avail. Hook politely suggested perhaps they should turn in for the night.

The business of going to bed is a simple and practical business on a working ship, and it was no different now. The lights were turned down, and Wendy was allowed to avail herself of a Chinese screen to change behind. Useless on a ship, unless a lady was present, and ladies used to be present quite frequently on the old Jolly Roger. It was only when they were finally settled and decidedly silent that things became awkward.

Sleeping is very awkward. Like before, they both remain awake. Speaking to one another would just emphasize that fact. The man could hear her twisting, turning, settling into the sheets, wrapping herself in the blanket. Hook himself took a while to fall asleep, because as a result of vanity and pragmatism at the same time, he decided to sleep with his bondage harness on. It was curiously intriguing to women, actually, Hook knew, but it was more for expediency than any sort of desired effect. Hook could make her out in the dark, the moon off her soft body and silky hair. Slip of a girl, spark and flash of a woman. His hand in her long hair, against her soft skin. Soft full lips parted beneath his own.

She was just fortunate he was a gentleman as well as a pirate. Which is another way to say he was a more sophisticated sort of predator.

He hoped Wendy would not suffer unduly for it.

The first thing they tried to escape the Neverland, then, was to sail off into the blind forever., although Hook phrased it differently. To a point. "Neverland at our rudder, snivelling dogs, off into the blind forever!"

The men were taken aback, but only for a moment. Their complicity was ascertained with the promise of a story from Red-Handed Jill.

"With gory deaths, and some betrayal," she promised. "And a kiss at the end," she adds, to cheers.

As they scurry off, Hook glared at his Storyteller.

Wendy caught his eye. "Why Captain, is something wrong?"

"No," he growled, though it was clear he disliked being upstaged. Tremendously.

The young woman smirked.

The journey started off most auspiciously, to bright sun and crisp breeze. At first Hook was preoccupied with setting sail, and making sure everything went smoothly. Soon, though, he could not help but notice the girl. He had assigned her to a delighted Smee, to follow and assist. He had assumed, quite correctly, that these duties would comprise of a correct mixture of beginner's skills, enthusiasm, and general nauticality. She and the older man get along beautifully, great-uncle and niece. Wendy completed her tasks with no small amount of celerity and enthusiasm.

Within days there was an extra swagger to her. Hook caught himself remembering being a young man when he watched her.

He decided to approach her, to ask if she had had enough and wanted to retire below, but she was all grime and business.

"I was below, assessing our inventory, and I had a question. I expect our journey will be many weeks," Wendy said. "Have we enough supplies?"

Hook blinked. "More than enough, provided England is but an ocean away. If it is further, than nothing will be enough and we shall surely perish. Does that set your mind at ease?"

She snorted. "I'm not so sure it was meant to!"

Hook was taken aback. Smee always indulged his moods desperately. He couldn't remember the last time he had been called out on his amateur dramatics.

But Smee was calling her, and she smiled and saluted--quite inappropriately, actually--and the captain was left alone.

They pursued this course for some weeks, over time settling into a routine.

Wendy, quite literally, learned the ropes. And a quicker, more able-bodied seaman Hook could not have wished for. She was intelligent and determined and enthusiastic--and was no mere wisp of a girl, he found. Her relatively active lifestyle had developed her quite nicely. In fact he got a peculiar thrill out of watching her leap about with a knife between her lips. More than once, she noticed him watching her, and stopped and smiled down at him, and her message seemed quite clear.

How brazen he was! And how brazen was she!

At which point he would bark an order, cruelly, like she was any other dog, and she would laugh and obey.

All in all it was a pleasant sort of sea-faring life. But then came the storm.

It was all of a sudden, a primal sort of thing, all the cold dark rage of God and Nature together. A real tempest. One moment tossed into the sky--the next sucked into the depths. Hook had rarely seen the like, and it would have given even him pause had he cared about his own death.

He had assumed Wendy had sought shelter below like a sensible girl until a particularly nasty wave found her clinging desperately to the rigging quite near to him--entwined in the ropes, her eyes the same storm-terror grey as the sky.

Wendy might have rarely been more terrified, but Hook had rarely been more furious. His eyes went red. With his one hand he grabbed her by the arm and rips her from the rigging. He dragged her to the cabin, opened the door, and hurled her inside the dark room, ignoring her cries.

"What are you doing?!" Wendy cried, shocked. "I can help!"

"Idiot girl," he shouted, "are you trying to kill yourself?"

"I am no girl! I am trained! A real pirate! I can help!"

"Stay here or die, either by the sea's hand or mine," he snarled.

Wendy knew better than to argue with her captain, especially in a time of crisis, but the hurt and terror in her eyes did not go unnoticed by Hook.

He did not exactly have time to explain--even now he was bracing himself in the doorway as the ship pitched and rocked, the wind blowing in the rain. "Wendy--" he says. "You must stay here. My own life is insignificant," he said, and I would welcome death. I do not value yours so cheaply."

He closed the door before she could react.

The storm died down as freakishly sudden as it had begun.

Hook returned to his cabin, thoroughly exhausted. Fancy clothing only blows away in a gale, or weighs one down to the death in seawater, so as a measure of practicality he was down to his trousers, boots, hook, and shirt. He was too tired to be worried about the girl, in fact he rather assumed she had gone to sleep from exhaustion. He certainly was looking forward to the privilege.

No such luck. She was awake and chipper and waiting. She had availed herself of a new change of clothes and had righted all the furniture. A pleasant domestic air to it all. His previous remarks seemed to have struck in the spirit intended, and Wendy was not at all sullen when he returned to his room. In fact:

"I got you out a change of clothes."

"Thank you." He is surprised and touched.

He began to untangle his hair with his hook, and she laughed.

He was embarassed and angry.

"Silly," she said, "let me!"

She picked up a brush, sat behind him on the bed, and began the arduous task of un-gnarling his stormy hair.

It was, simply put, much better than his hook.

At one point he could not help himself. As she braced herself on his shoulder, he caught her wrist, pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it. It was, he was aware, uncomfortably intimate. But she is a braver girl than he gives her credit for and although he could feel her tense, she called his bluff and did not move a muscle. She waited. In fact it is he who cowered in the face of whatever it is and placed her hand back on his shoulder with a pat and a grimace.

"Thank you," he said simply. "I can take it from here. If you will allow me my bed, I am well and truly exhausted."

She allowed him his bed.

They would not experience the likes of the storm again. Unfortunately, they were not to experience the likes of much of anything again. It was Wendy's theory (and Hook's too, of course,) that the storm had marked some sort of definite boundary, an edge, perhaps. The next morning, as they rose and began the day, all the great ocean was hung over with a heavy mist. The further and longer they went, the more indefinite and misty everything got. By midafternoon the grey-down cloud cover gave way to an impossible white. The water followed. The sun was nowhere to be found.

And finally they were stuck in a shimmering oasis of Never. Of Forever.

Doldrums. Limbo. Hell, Hook offered himself, dark as ever. He was at the ship's railing, gazing into the proverbial abyss. It is no place for the living.

The men were mostly certain they found themselves within a particularly confounding fog, and who is to say they were wrong? Hook encouraged the notion, and left it to Smee to keep morale where it should be. If it flagged, he would kill one of them to guarantee a lack of questions.

The thought offered some momentary comfort.

Someone was approaching him. He caught himself ready to make the kill just for the sin of disturbing the captain, but realized it was Wendy. He felt her join his side, but did not tear his gaze away from the infernal white.

"This is no good," she said. "We will run out of supplies and die."

She was catching on to this hell. Captain Hook went in for the kill. He will not murder her, but it was quite ridiculous that she should be spared his dark nature simply because she was his Wendy. He would not hurt her, but he certainly would frighten her.

"Or," Hook added, starting into motion, coming up close behind her. "Perhaps we will be forever caught in between, in this nothing, long after we should have starved or died from thirst, for the rest of forever." He on purpose leans close, his lips a little nearer her ear than necessary, his voice a little lower, a little more sibilant. She is not unaffected. Neither is he.

"You don't think that perhaps we should carry on, and maybe push through this?" she asked.

"We are Beyond, and here there is Nothing. We would only get further lost."

"That would make a terrible story."

"Life often does. Look at it, rather, as another obstacle for our heroine to overcome."

She turned, his arms still on either side of her. A brave move for the girl. If he had but adjusted his position they would have been embracing, they were already almost touching, yet here she was, leaning on the railing, bracing her hand against his chest, staring up at him bold as anything! "Among other things," she said. "Very well. Perhaps we should turn back."

His eyes were on her lips, watching her form those words. Pleasant reverie. Watched them smile.

"Of course," he said. "Whatever you wish."

She was clearly having dark thoughts of her own, which fascinated him. He watched those perfect lips twist into a decidedly un-childlike sneer. She leaned forward as if to kiss him on the cheek, but seemed to think better of it. Instead she folded herself neatly out from between his arms and disappeared in the mist.

Hook gave the emptiness surrounding the ship only another cursory glance before ordering his men to turn them around.

In a maddening if unsurprising turn, it only took about a day to make it back to Neverland.

A/N

OK GUYS. I do not even know what is happening with this site, but I'm having trouble getting the correct version of this story uploaded. First of all thanks a million for letting me know, and second of all please please bear with me as I get this sorted out.

Good heavens.

--Dollfayce


	11. Run To

SINNER MAN PART THE SECOND

In a maddening if unsurprising turn, it only took about a day to make it back to Neverland. The heroes' less than triumphant return.

The island came into sight suddenly, cutting quick and green through the fog. The sight made Hook's stomach turn. His home, Limbo, Hell. With Wendy here, he saw his circumstance with new eyes. And he was not pleased.

The girl herself, seemingly only exhausted in body rather than spirit, wanted to excuse herself to the cabin soon after they weighed anchor.

"We must discuss our next movements," she said. "And I must choose a proper cutlass!"

"Ah. So you will be the one to send the monster to the depths, then?"

"Not without a proper sword, I won't."

She placed a hand on his shoulder before she left, and he returned a smile. There was no reason she should know how empty he felt, after that trip into oblivion. He might spare her that pain. It wasn't as though she wouldn't be as low as he in time.

Too long on the island would do that. One never found any danger that wasn't already lurking within. And it did bring out the most terrible in people.

After she left, he turned back to contemplate the Neverland. Hook wondered afresh what folly precisely it had been to bring the Storyteller here, for himself.

His story--a different sort of story than she usually told, he knew. Song for a sinner. There were so many slimy little shameful gullies of human nature she could never know. So much evil appeased, lusts gratified--moral principle become idle fancy become memory. But this was never how it was supposed to be, he didn't think. Never ever. Never-never!

Hook knew, he was supposed to have a story fit for a proper young lady to tell. Here: Once upon a time, he was beautiful and beloved. Blue-eyed boy. A veritable prince. Favored by man and woman alike. A man with a future instead of a past.

And now he had neither.

Sea-dark wine, and wine-dark sea.

See.

All Hook knew now was the black damned present, forever pursued by time.

And time here was eternity. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

(Hook's afraid of an old dead clock.)

He had wanted new life, he remembered that much. To escape, and begin again. To never see them again.

Not anymore. Now all he wanted was an end to the story. A _real _end, the road to dusty death--this truth he would spare the girl. Sinner man. The things he had done, those perfect precious things he had lost, what he would never have or be again! And now not even death would give him rest. Just a new start on hell.

So to kill the crocodile? Why not? There was nothing else to do. A child's folly, anyway.

Hook walked slowly back to his cabin, listened to the fall of his heeled boots. He paused at the door. His nameplate, the shiny gold. Capt. Jas. Hook. Not his real name.

He must speak to Wendy, to warn her at least.

His hand on the door, he remembered, hatefully, the last woman's heart he had broken. Then he pushed the door open.

The captain found Wendy at the vanity, brushing out her own honey-brown hair with his comb, rearranging it back in her pirate's coiffe. She did nothing to acknowledge his entrance but smile into the mirror, so used were they to each other's company .

He gave a nod at her reflection, and went over to the drinks cabinet. Poured himself some wine. He knew there were many ways to drown oneself.

(The sea, it won't take you.)

Hook returned to the table to finish a second glass. Some propriety had to be observed, after all. Good form. Perhaps she might note that he was drinking from the glass instead of the bottle, and wine instead of rum--the bottle of harder spirit being his companion on most nights. Along with Smee, he amended.

Wendy finished with her ablutions and with a gentle clatter of accessories closed the drawer he had set aside for her. She pulled a chair over to his table herself, without waiting to be proffered one. It was an encouraging sign, that she was coming into her own. Losing the irritating trappings of both helpless child and worthlessly trained society woman. Becoming an equal, or at least becoming less frightened of him.

If she ever was indeed frightened of him. Why he felt encouraged by these developments, he thought, only God knew. Or His old enemy.

Wendy only waved away his offer of imbibement. While she never vocally disapproved of his sailor's thirst, she never joined him, either. Instead the young woman placed her chin on intertwined fingers, eyes bright as pixies staring up.

"I must admit, I am quite looking forward to this next chapter. You see, I feel we must make at least a token attempt to slay the monster. For form's sake, at least," she said.

And what did she know of form! He hid his sneer behind another sip. "Which is an intriguing thought, of course, but I thought I would tell you now: the crocodile cannot be killed."

Wendy gave a thoughtful pout. "Which intrigues _me_. Can anything die on this island?"

"Of course it can die. It just can't leave."

Beautiful eyes not so bright now. "So...you mean it will return, even if destroyed?"

"Oh, good heavens, lass. I could not tell with any certainty. Perhaps not as a crocodile. Perhaps...as a nightmare. A hurricane. Perhaps as a little boy. Who can say?" Hook was aware he was being needlessly unpleasant...but. Even thinking of the beast sickened him. Disgusted him. Made him upset. Made him so sad.

He had been so sad for so long, and utterly impotent to find solace.

"You must have tried a very many times, I realize," she said, but he cut her off. Gentle man.

"You presume too much," he said, "too much, I think." This is what he said, and indeed he said it harshly! but he wanted to say so much more.

Oh Wendy, he wished he could say, to make her understand. If you only knew how terrible it was. How it would cut and kill and destroy you, such a lovely thing, to become a bull tortured in a bull ring, the longest death of a thousand cuts. It takes you bit by bit. Innocence. Happiness. Hand. Heart. Soul. You know how the rest goes. It is an old song.

Oh Wendy, he wanted to say, to well and truly break her heart. If only you knew how terrified I am, and me, the most terrible of all! How it freezes me, how it bleeds me. How it was all the fires of hell, the river Styx itself in its dark maw. How there was no comfort in being enveloped. Slimy skin and yellow eyes. Like it was decaying. It was decay. It was entropy, it was evil, it was loneliness.

He wanted to express to her how hell was such a very cold place after all.

Oh Wendy. Oh, friend. Oh, darling.

But instead he looked into this woman's eyes, the soothing grey, and hated her for being beautiful and young and free, and he could not continue with his monster story. His ghost story.

What he knew she must come to understand--the real monsters are never under the bed, or under the sea. They are much more clever than all that.

He was much more clever than all that.

Instead he continued. "That is, I determined long ago that it was fruitless and ended only in death."

Still he felt cruel, he was upset, and it was sweet as lies to be joined in his pain. He leaned forward. "Now there's a thought! What a chapter for your story! Would you like to die, my dear? It is, after all, an awfully big adventure. Is that what this is about? Some glorious...climax?" He let his mouth linger around the word perhaps a little longer than was necessary, and certainly longer than was proper.

Wendy bit her lip and glared, but was unruffled. She really did have preternatural poise, he was coming to realize. "Very well, Captain, _do_ try to frighten me. If it does indeed give you pleasure. But I believe I was recruited onto this ship for my prodigious storytelling skills, and especially my superb understanding of narrative convention." Flat affect. She almost sounded bored. Certainly not frightened, or even unsettled.

"And only to help a poor broken sinner, of course." How childish of him!

She smiled at the poor broken sinner, a devilish half-smile that had quite come into its own as of late. How he wanted, more and more as of late, to possess it for himself. "And of course, to find the next chapter in my own story."

He would not be soothed, even by bewitching smiles. He wondered if he could make time to find some Lost Boys to shoot, and remembered with a pang of disappointment that they had not yet reappeared.

Blast.

"Perhaps we did not sail far enough..." he said.

"_You_ are frightened," Wendy said, as if amazed. She immediately looked like she regretted the sentiment.

"And you of all people should know why," Hook said quietly. Dangerously. "You've told so many stories, you seem to know all, and yet you offer me nothing.

"Oh Captain. I don't even know my own story right now," Wendy said sadly.

"And I have lost mine," he confided. "It's amazing how one loses certainty the more experience one acquires. All one is left with is scraps, and scars, and bits of--never mind. At this point, I don't even remember what I was trying to forget, which is a sort of triumph, I suppose. And yet here I am."

"All right," Wendy said, "so you don't remember. Perhaps we have to conquer what is so terrifying?"

"You do not seem to understand, you of all people! You cannot conquer the crocodile. It is...like I said. Death, despair, entropy, it is the inevitable force of things we do not understand and cannot control. It is time. It is pain. It is betrayal. It is every mistake you've ever made. Every sin. It is regret."

"And it will _always_ pursues you, even outside the Neverland. It's just that here, it has been given form."

A smile. "Well then! We should be rejoicing, it has given us a body at which to aim our guns. All the more reason to try!" Wendy said. "Hook...that is, James," she said more softly, and reached across to put his wine glass down, grab his hand, and hold it. Not hard, not aggressively, but affectionately.

Although hand-holding was entirely discouraged behavior for a cabin-boy, Hook was enchanted, and decided promptly to not mention the breach of etiquette.

"Wendy," he said.

"I know you have a dread fear of the crocodile," and when he then tried to pull away in protest, she held him fast. "And I am only beginning to understand it. But a story is no story unless all the obvious avenues are explored. And this is the most obvious avenue."

"It will end in death, Miss Darling."

"Yours? You might welcome it, I daresay. Mine? Hook, you would never let such a thing happen to me."

"Are you sure? I've tried to kill you before, you know."

"And failed, might I remind you."

"This is true. What will you do if I manage to die, and leave you here all alone?"

"Why, Captain, I hope it is not too forward to suggest that I would happily step into your empty position as Captain Jill, Scourge of the Seven Seas?"

"Not at all, I was going to suggest it myself." He twisted his hand, so he was the one holding hers, and raised it against his cheek. "I do rather prefer James."

She smiled, so open and delighted and strong, that it was then that James Hook fell in love slightly.

Of course he would not handle it well.

**********

It was never difficult to find the crocodile. All one had to do is stay in one place long enough. Maybe remember. Maybe regret.

In the Neverland, as in the real world, it is never enough to just tread water.

By now rising and preparing for the day together was a comfortable ritual. After breakfast, they had briefly discussed a sort of battle plan, as it were.

He explained how he thought it would go: cannons and guns and steel. The crocodile would attack and they would parry. He explained what parts of the ship she would be most useful, with her sharp eyes, and also which would be safest. Wendy showed a certain keenness that Hook found heartwarming, but this could have been evidence of his new and inexplicable regard for her.

It could not be denied that what she lacked in proficiency in naval warfare she more than made up for in audacity and enthusiasm. He suggested a more cautious approach, to come in contact as little with the crocodile, she wanted to go in cannons blazing.

They agreed in the end to try it her way. It was her smile, he thought later, that did it, and rather marveled at the fact that such an inconsequential thing could still have an effect on him, as it once had.

The men would not be so charmed, and were quite vocal in their disapproval of the day's venture.

"It will kill us!" they cried.

"It will eat us!"

"It will tear the ship in two!"

"It will tear us in threes and fours!"

"And I will do worse," Hook growled, or started to, before Wendy standing strong before the mast drowned him out.

"But men!" she cried. "What if I told you the story of Cinderella first?"

"Not a soppy girl's story!" one scoffed.

Wendy scoffed right back. "And what is soppy about Cinderella? Have you forgotten the cowboys? And the pirates? The _centaurs_?"

From the looks on their faces, they had.

She put her hands on her waist. "The _blood pact_ most foul, that almost undoes the whole matter?"

The young woman was a wonder. The men were utterly hers to do as she wished with. And it must be said that her agreeable additions quite improved the usual listless narrative.

After the tale was told they waited together, Wendy and Hook, at the railing, side by side. The wind was brisk, salt spray occasionally reaching the deck. Wendy's face was unreadable. Hook fancied his expression was as well.

All they had to do, he had instructed her, was wait--and think, and remember. Really contemplate your life, and everything that you had done wrong. Everything wrong and terrible. All the roses left to rot.

Think of your life.

A man of feeling--o man unfathomable!

He turned to her. "I do not require your assistance, in this..." he said. "I am quite enough of a lure for the crocodile alone. Besides which, I cannot imagine such a young woman has many regrets."

She looked up at him sharply, the stormy sadness in her grey eyes taking him back. "And what do you know of me, Captain, other than I am a pretty young Storyteller?." Ah. Evidently his more untoward attentions had not gone unnoticed. "You know nothing of any pain I might have. You have been alone too long." With that, she turned back toward the sea, and was silent.

Remember before, his other life, his real life, when it was bright, and he was loved. And then he failed. He wasn't brave enough. He couldn't do it, he couldn't love them as they deserved. The woman. The golden boy, of before. He could never be what any of them wanted him to be. He had run away. He had escaped.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. Oh no no no no no.

The light dimmed, the air thinned. The nauseating purple green of the tornado. How the salt air smelled almost like blood.

It would all engulf him soon enough.

The children--and the Indians, and the mermaids--laughed at his fear of the crocodile. Even his men, he knew, did not completely understand his complete dehumanizing dread, although they were careful to disguise their thoughts. As much as they could, deceit was beyond their limited capabilities.

Oh but they didn't know. It was her eyes, it was his eyes, it was the red and tears in his own. It was the years that overcome. It was everything terrible and lonely.

He was so very trapped, and he ran away to make it better. Of course it did not get better. Everything was even more hopeless than before.

And where would he run to now? There was no place left!

Salt tears.

It was very dark, then. Way beyond nightfall, the sort of nauseating nightmare greenishness giving Hook and Wendy's pale skin a waxy luminescence. The wind picked up, whipping plastering their hair painful against their pale faces. Hook put out a proprietary arm out against Wendy's back, reflexively. Like it could do any good.

There was a break in the waves before them. A different sort of texture. Scales and skin, not chop and foam.

(Because he would not be betrayed first, by anyone. Not again. Not ever again. And her, with her perfect--)

It slithered, it writhed, ocean water briny slime. Stuck to its scales like all disgust. Every regret. The red in its eyes reflect his own. Despair like the black bile it swam in.

See it slither. The senseless denouement. And wasn't it all?

And oh see its teeth. Feel the blind white panic.

Project your own darkness.

(Where are you going to run to? Where are you going to run to, now?)

It hissed, it heaved. It closed in.

Hook froze, which was not part of the battle plan. The men around looked to him, worried, expectant. They were only affected by the size of the beast, not the accompanying wash of feeling. Perhaps they had never had anything to haunt them. And while James himself had maybe forgotten the exact form and function he had not forgotten the pain itself.

Our man of feeling!

"To your posts, men," Wendy cried out. She was not incapacitated. "Or be devoured as well! To it! Go! GO!"

They knew by now to listen to the girl.

She turned back. "James," Wendy said. She was terrified, wide eyed and thin lipped. He supposed later he must have seemed alien, awash in such terror. But she stayed by his side and did not cry out. She trusted him.

"Wendy," he said, before he felt the very rictus on his face and body and shook himself out of it. At least barely. Enough to turn and yell.

"Kill it!" he cried--let us not say shrieked--to his men. "Kill it, blast ye, kill it!" He was not hysterical. Not quite.

The men knew this song. The only changed lyric was the Wendy. They sprang into action, relieved at least at the release of all the tension of waiting--a coiled spring.

Tick-tock tick-tock. Men at the sails, men at the cannons, all were shouting. They ran up and down the black deck as if possessed, the very ground churning under them as the crocodile stirred the sea.

The ship _lurched_ as the reptile drew up against the side, teasing. Hook had his footing, but Wendy almost stumbled. Almost. In time she would make a better pirate than he.

"What can we--" she starts.

"Hope the cannons strike true," he said. "Take up your gun."

She obeyed, pale, lips pressed to a line. He had already reviewed with her how to use the gun. Of course, with an animal of that size she did not need to be an excellent marksman. Other men had been similarly instructed. Aim for the mouth and eyes. Any vulnerable spots you could find.

Of course if Hook was right--and he knew he was--then the creature had no vulnerable spots.

Cannon fire; deafening. Hook could follow the progress of the crocodile round the ship not only from the way the boat is lurching, but from which of the Jolly Roger's cannons was firing. Of course every few moments a crewman would get overexcited and shoot at a shadow, but that was only to be expected.

The cannon fire died down, and the ship stopped lurching. The air smelled of salt and gunpowder and terror, all sharp. Hook and Wendy found themselves on the starboard side, some yards apart, daring a look into the water.

Nothing.

The beast had either left, or merely dove down under.

Captain Hook was not looking forward to dying again. It did not even provide the smallest amount of relief anymore. All he was sometimes was a wounded animal. His hand--his hand! And what else!

Yet what he was looking forward to even less was losing his Wendy. His woman.

In the stillness, the only sound was the flap of the sails and the eerie groan of the ship.

Then a splash, a roar, a scream of shattered wood.

Before Hook and Wendy, rose the monster. Its mouth was agape, smiling at them.

Everything seemed for one perfect moment to be still. Hook saw the monster hang in midair, lunge towards him--

No--not to him. To Wendy, with her pale little cutlass and useless gun and perfect face and sad little heart.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

She screamed, and time started again.

The crocodile snapped, missing the girl. The head landed on the side of the ship, pulling it over and down with its extraordinary weight. Wendy fell to the deck from the impact. Hook managed to keep his footing. He heard the cries and splashes of men falling overboard.

It seemed to open its mouth even wider. Its death smile, its death head. The shape of its skull.

The shape of her skull!

Oh Wendy.

Oh my darling, the thoughts rushed, the memories started. It's gone all wrong again.

Take me instead

not my

pure girl

My girl.

Oh my!

He leapt for her, wanting to throw her out of the way, although he knew it was death. But the villain froze. Again. This was what he could not bear. He only joined her--he could not sem to make the extra leap and save her.

Clocks can wait. Time would take her, anyway.

(His boy had blue eyes too, though hers were dark. He had been so pleased.)

It was Wendy who gave an inhuman shriek, and plunged the cutlass into the crocodile's mouth even as the Captain came to his senses and pulled her away.

The crocodile groaned, and sank back into the depths, taking a good portion of the deck with it.

The pirates had landed out of harm's way, but only barely. The men clustered around them, until Hook yelled at them to disperse and for god's sake get them aground.

They obeyed. It wouldn't be too difficult. The ocean was quiet now, the waves lapping softly.

Wendy had tears in her eyes and was taking shuddering little breaths, but did not appear unduly upset.

"Is it gone?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Will it come back?"

"Not for a while."

"It didn't even bleed. Did it? I don't think it bled."

"It can't."

Smee, who was much more practical than Hook about the emotional capacities of young women unused to such mortal terror, came over. With a nod to his Captain, he helped Wendy up and bundled them both off to the cabin, and made himself useful.

Hook was quite used to Smee's mothering ways and accepted his drinking chocolate without a word. Wendy, however, thanked the mate profusely, and was rewarded with a flush of embarrassed pleasure.

"My pleasure, Miss," Smee said, bowing. "Is there anything else ye'd like? Some more blankets? Biscuits? Cigar?"

"Out, Smee," Hook ordered. Perhaps a little sharply. The man obeyed.

Hook and Wendy were left alone.

"Well!" Hook said. "I hope you are _quite _pleased with the day's exertions? My ship destroyed, my crew demoralized. Is that what you thought was to happen? The whims of a Storyteller are cruel indeed?

He could not help but be snide. He was pleased they were both alive, to be sure, but it did not change the fact that they would be incapacitated for some time. And all for the precious whims of a precious girl who thought she knew just everything!

Wendy did not seem to hear him. She was staring wide and furious off into middle distance, which is never exactly a harbinger of a sound and untroubled mind.

"It didn't bleed, James!," she hissed. "It didn't bleed or even act hurt! You were right! You were right and I should have listened! And it cannot die!"

Now she did focus on him. "Perhaps...perhaps I am cursed now, like you. Perhaps in escaping from that dreary quotidian existence I am also condemned to...to...this purgatory of the mind!"

Her normally sweet face was darkened with anger. "And--you knew this! You knew this could happen. How dare you!"

She stood up, putting her now-cool chocolate aside. "How dare you steal me here. How dare he keep me here!"

Hook only sneered and sipped his drink as she railed on. He noticed his chocolate was warmed with brandy, and rather wondered about Wendy's. She would feel better after an outburst. He always did.

When she slowed down, he set down his mug and stood. "Do not play the innocent; you are ill-suited for the role now. You knew full well the consequences. I warned you. And after all," he smiled mirthlessly, "you remember the mermaids! Those dark ladies did say the crocodile would devour us both."

She had no answer, for he was correct. "Evil lost man," she finally said. "I should have known."

He gave an ironic bow. "I am, as ever, the villain in my own story. Perhaps you are too, darling Wendy."

She did not say anything, just stood and shivered. It occurred to him that she was still cold, and from the looks of it, quite damp. The wet was still clinging to her form. It was _so_ hard to remember the little girl she once was.

He would stop trying.

Hook realized there was a completely beautiful and completely devastated young woman before him and felt some conflicting urges--to corrupt and protect. Fortunately he did not have choose, because in one action he could indulge both.

He let his face melt into warmth, with just the right hint of melancholy. Never mind if it reflected any actual feeling.

"Come here," he said, holding out an arm. The one with the hand. He said it so softly, so gently, with such concern and sadness in his eyes. Entrancing, he knows too well.

She jerked toward him, uncertain, put a hand out in front of her. He closed the distance, expertly, his arms round her chastely, if a little tighter than necessary.

Any port in a storm.

"There, _there_," he said, with that little drop of poison distilled in his very own heart, from his very own tears. It was deadly--most deadly, in fact, to lost girls. "My girl. It is all right. It will be all right. There is no need to be frightened--"

It was as if he had stabbed her. She pushed away from him as if he had run a knife through her breast.

"Frightened!" she said in disbelief. "_Frightened_! Me!" she said with blistering contempt. "I cannot believe--oh!--"

Wendy Darling turned and ran out the door, leaving a very baffled Captain Hook.

He found her on the deck, of course, although he was worried he'd have to climb into the rigging or search the rowboats for her.

"There you are," he said, neutral, as if nothing had just passed between them.

"Of course I am," she said dully. "There is nowhere else to go. You know this, Hook. There is nowhere to run to. Nowhere to go home to. Home is just a memory and now all I have is sea and sand. Her past is just a story she knows by heart--and more and more of the details are slipping."

"It will pass," the Captain lied. "We will find a way to get you home."

"Oh Hook!" she said, and turned to him. "It is as I said before! My heart is forever heavy and I cannot fly. I know you are the same. And I cannot determine why we are caught here, together." The pain was beginning to show through, the usual bloom in her youthful face drawn and desperate.

She could be as ruined as he in time.

It was he who had to look away. "Yes. I see no way you can escape, now. I am sorry." And he was.

He approached her again. At his first footfall she turned, with cutlass and sneer.

"Vile, sinister man," she spat. "Come no further!"

The sword pressed against his cravat, the sharp point threatening his skin. He felt real pain, and saw real anger in her eyes, and both delighted him. He gave his best pirate smile.

"Sad, foolish woman," he said. "Run me through, if you dare!"

A moment, fraught. Hook gratified his imagination in imagining his grisly death at the hands of a beautiful woman.

"I cannot," she said finally, although she did not lower the blade. "For you see I feel my story is inexplicably intertwined with yours, Captain."

"How does it end?"

"I...do not know."

"Poorly, I suppose. The crocodile has a taste of your blood too, after all."

"I will not give in."

"I will not let you."

"And yet all we have is sea and sand. And...each other," she said. She lowered the blade, dropped it with a clatter clang at her side, and stepped closer.

"Look at me," Wendy said. And her face was so intent and inscrutable. She put out her right hand against his cheek. Her hand was smooth and warm, against the chill. Her eyes were so fierce he might have have mistook her expression for anger.

"I think I shall give you...a kiss," she said.

He did not put out his hand. That is, not to receive something. Instead he pulled her closer.

"I would welcome such a gift."

Her wicked half smile. "Oh! So you are not going to laugh, and say, how like a girl?"

Hook quite ignored her insouciance. He pulled her very tight, possessive with his hooked arm, so that she gave a little gasp. His eyes not meeting hers but on her face, intent like before, his mouth unsmiling except the cruelty at the corner of his mouth. He held her face as he had when she was but a prettier sort of child bound to the mast, harshly, and ran his thumb again over her soft lips--

(There's always room for a storyteller.)

--"You do not know what you ask."

"I know more than you think," she whispered low and just as harsh, and he believed her.

Wendy leaned in, and pressed her lips to his. It was all he could do to hold himself back, and to merely accept what was given and take nothing for himself.

It was the sweetest kiss he could remember.

She pulled back. "You were in my stories long before I was ever in yours."

The men were nowhere to be found as they returned to their cabin. Generally they had a good instinct for this sort of thing.

The young woman preceded him into the room. Luxe darkness, sinking into the velvets, dripping into corners like honey. Smee, having an even finer honed instinct then the men, had cleared their dishes and made himself scarce.

Wendy lit the candles herself, with what lucifers remained.

She turned to him, appearing slightly agitated. "Captain," she said. "I feel we must make more permanent arrangements for myself than the cabin boy's effects."

He sat on the chaise longue, not near enough to frighten or suggest. "Oh yes? I can hardly put you with the crew, I think. What a way to treat a lady."

"Quite. But perhaps for tonight, if we both promised to comport ourselves, I might sleep here in the bed?" Her hand was on the main bed. His bed.

He raised an eyebrow, and could not stop his eyes from briefly raking her body and considering certain possibilities--

But some better part of him knew how frightened she was, however much she demurred.

"Of course," he said, in his same deferential tone. He had dried her tears before, years ago. He could certainly do so again.

She only nodded, with a curt little smile, and proceeded to remove her jacket and shoes, and nothing else. She slipped between the covers and watched him, a daring sort of look on her face.

His pirate girl.

"My good lady--I am at your command."

Without looking at her, although he could feel her eyes on him, he removed his own shoes and jacket. Because she did not know what she was asking, and he was not so corrupt as all that, he stayed above the blankets. Because he was cruel, he leaned across her to blow out the candle.

She only laughed, and turned on her side to face him after he settled himself. It was dark, and he could only see little glitters off her open eyes and teeth, and then only briefly. But he felt her take his prone right arm, hook and all, and entertwine her own arm with it. Carelessly, affectionately, as if he were a pillow or stuffed bear. He twitched--his hook--but she held fast.

It was the most touching gesture he had experienced in so long. It was the first time he had such a beautiful woman in his bed for so long.

This would only grow more difficult, he knew.

Wendy fell asleep quickly, leaving Hook very, very much alone in the dark.

This was all proceeding very fast, and very dark.

There would be nowhere to run to soon.

(Sinnerman--where will you run to?

The sea, it rages!

The grave will not hold you, the sea will not have you--where will you escape to now?)

A/N

Okay. Look. Let's be real:

I quote the Spielberg Hook in this.

Gah.

Let's still be friends.

(Also reference de Sade, if you can find him. Hooray!)

As usual, sorry it took so long to update, but this is the length of like three normal chapters if that makes up for anything. We have definitely rounded the corner of the narrative, and I hope to have this finished by the end of this year, especially since I'll be moving back to Utah and starting school again come January.

I hope this chapter didn't get too bogged down in my elaborate mental mythology of the Neverland--that is, I hope you enjoyed it!

If you did or didn't, let me know! I want to make the best story possible.

Love always,

Dollfayce


	12. Swim and Glitter

DARLING

Wendy Darling was rocked awake by the waves, as she had been so for as long as she could remember. Her eyes fluttered open then closed again immediately as she relished the passage from darkness to light, from sleep to consciousness. She stretched, arched her back, felt her legs press against the comforting presence of the captain. When she finally opened her eyes, she found herself staring at a sharp shiny hook. Why, she could almost see her reflection it was so close. She pulled back with a gasp.

Then she laughed at her momentary shock. Why, after all this time, would she be frightened of something like that? Indeed, had it ever been any different?

James Hook was still sleeping, propped up against the headboard. Having only removed his jacket and waistcoat to sleep, his white skin and shirtsleeves contrasted sharply against the wood, which was purple-black in the dawn. His right arm was closest to her, and she had obviously clung close to it during the night.

It was still mostly dark outside, so she could not fault his slumber. As softly as she could, she pulled herself up and next to him, examining his features at rest.

He really was lovely, in the half light of dawn, she thought. Wendy chose not to dissect her rush of possessive affection, but instead to focus on the memorization of the perfect haughty elegance of his features. This morning they were unmarred by pain or worry or too little sleep or too much rum, except the lines that were there always. Too many bloody adventures, too much poison. His lashes were dark and long against the pale skin, his lips closed. Porcelain at rest. The light pooled silver and blue in the hollows of his face, instead of the shadow-blacks and blood-reds of wine and candlelight from the nights before. Porcelain and steel, rather, she supposed.

Softly, quietly, she placed her hand feather soft against his chest, felt the firmness. Barely daring, she allowed her fingers to stray under his shirt, feel his ever-beating heart. Beat, beat. Tick, throb. Passing time as surely and fearfully as the apparatus in his monster, the Crocodile.

He did not move. Emboldened, she let her hand move up, to the tangles of dark hair framing his face. Watched her little white fingers disappear in the curls.

Though time and memory were here such twisty fickle things, Wendy Darling did recall when she had first spoken to her Captain, the man haunting all her tales. How he had purred and cajoled, blood-red lord of all that was grown-up, all that was dark and frightening, and how she had shivered, how dazzled and confused she was. She had not known what seduction was, then, even the more innocent sort he was peddling to gain compliance from a confused child for information. She supposed that is what had saved her.

Or perhaps postponed the inevitable. As an adolescent, he had aroused obsession, a twinge of possibility which utterly entranced her. As an adult, she knew exactly the black intrigue he could offer her now.

And she was not frightened, or confused, anymore.

Finally, she moved her hand to his face, mirroring the chilly liberties he had taken with her, and moved her small thumb over those thin perfect lips. The delicate curve under her own fingers, searching maybe for the kiss she had given last night.

Wendy had overestimated the captain's complicity. Hook's eyes flew open, and with the hard calculating gaze she knew shot his hand up to grab her own. He contemplated her for a moment, dispassionately, his heavy lidded eyes searching her own.

He broke into a smile.

"Jill," he said softly, and let her go. Instead he wrapped his hand round his neck and pulled her close for a kiss. She acquiesced happily, at first supporting herself against his chest, then moving her hand to his neck to deepen the kiss herself. He pulled her closer so she was leaning quite agreeably against him, when—something important--

"Wendy!" she said, although it was heard more as "Mmph!" She pulled away so that she might have a chance to be understood. "Wendy. I'm Wendy, not Jill."

Instead of a kiss, they were both sharing the same look of mortified confusion.

"Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she whispered unhelpfully.

"Oh. Yes. Of course," he said quickly.

"Miss Darling. I do apologize," he went on, although did not explain for exactly what he was apologizing for. Wendy rather doubted it was for his amorous behavior, and anyway she would not have accepted the apology. She could have happily continued all morning, a thought which made her blush all the more furiously.

It was the talisman of her last name that did it. A cold splash of sea water. Wendy remembered. She remembered that this was not in fact exactly how she had been waking up for the past weeks, that she most emphatically did not share her sleeping arrangements with any man. She had always slept in the cabin boy's cot which was--

Now completely absent from the room.

"Hook!" she said, looking around. "Has your...has this room changed?" She had quite pulled away from him, and was sitting back on her ankles, surveying the room.

The captain had his long legs draped over the side of the bed, rubbing his face to erase the last traces of somnolence. When she spoke, he looked about with polite interest. "I notice no change. To what are you referring?"

"Where is my bed?"

"Don't be daft. You've always slept here, with me."

"But I haven't! That doesn't make sense--"

Hook frowned. "Perhaps not. But where else--"

She hopped off the bed. "There was a cot...here, I believe," going into the corner where now was a bookshelf.

Surely...it was not like this before?

Getting a little confused, she padded on bare feet over to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. There, on the left, were unmistakably Hook's clothes. All the finest fabrics in lush jewels and vicious crimsons. Silk and brocade and lace, to flatter his cruel face and form, as well as heavy wool and utilitarian leather against the crueler elements. Her decadent dandy become pirate king. She knew these clothes. She had not only seen them but described them a thousand times over.

Yet here--on the right—

Wendy had always had adequate clothing here, no doubt provided by former women in Hook's life as well as the Neverland. She did not ask, and he did not elaborate. She had as well--rather embarassingly--used her nightgown for a real gown on the rare occasion. It was possibly more modest then trousers, she could never quite decide. But those had been folded, kept in a chest under the curiously absent cot.

But here! Now! What an impressive wardrobe was now present. Her old clothes yes, but also a surfeit of gowns just to her taste, and from her time. One dress in particular that she had seen in the shops, but had proved too expensive, now here for her in all its glory. And, more disturbingly, trousers and boots and heavy coats. Things Wendy-sized and Wendy-shaped and decidedly pirate natured. Clothes and colors to flatter and protect her young face and form. Things a young lady might need for surviving a comfortable eternity in the Neverland.

Wendy, in disbelief, reached out a hand to feel the clothes. Although she had never seen them before, she felt an uncanny familiarity. What beautiful cloth! How exquisitely crafted! She reached out slowly to pull out the dress she had eyed so jealously, in the dress shop with...with someone, someone important--

Her mother.

Hook's voice, a million years ago--Do you remember your mother? he had said, cold and smiling. It had been meant to unsettle and terrify.

Hook's voice, now. "Did you remember anything different?"

She hadn't said no before. She hadn't needed to.

It was the same now.

"But I _know_," she said, with a slight strangle in her voice. "It wasn't like this."

"The Neverland is what it is supposed to be." He had sneaked up behind her. His chest pressed against her shoulder blades, his hand rested softly on the small of her back. She shivered, and tensed, and felt herself leaning back against him, exposing her throat. The captain shut the open door with is hook, metal slinking on glass, and she saw them both in the front mirror--had that been there before? Unimportant. Wendy looked at their reflection, there together. Man and woman. Pirate and storyteller.

The dawn light was warming, now, and he was very handsome, her ruined man.

"Your concern is futile," he continued. "We are unable to influence these changes consciously. I have certainly tried. All this blasted place does is reflection. It absorbs and synthesizes." He reached out and felt the dress, a short practiced stroke. A hand that knew quality. "I am so very, very sorry. It seems you have become part of it too."

Then he sneered, and withdrew his hand, wrapping it against her waist. "As I warned you."

"James," Wendy asked. She did not turn to look at him directly, but met his eyes in the mirror. "Did you lose your hand before or after you found the Neverland?"

She had meant it in the innocent spirit of academic inquiry, rather than a cruel blow, but it was not received as such. He gave her a black stare, and dug his fingers painfully into her skin. They both knew the answer. They both knew what it implied.

Wendy regarded them again. Perhaps all they were, was a broken man poisoned by his own bile, and a stupid child unable to face any part of the real world.

"You dress," he finally said, his voice cold as his eyes. "I have my duties to attend to." He released her. Deftly, he plucked his waistcoat from the chair he had obviously flung it on the last night, and strode outside. When he childishly shut the door with much more gusto than was needed, Wendy stuck out her tongue and laughed. Ridiculous man!

She dressed happily in the dress that she had so often admired, but could never possess. It was cream and grey and as perfect as she would have hoped, and fit perfectly. The hemline would have been slightly scandalous at home, but here would allow her to move comfortably about the ship.

Wendy sat down on the floor and propped herself against the bed to pull on her stockings and shoes. She was not overly concerned her cot had disappeared. Smee adored her, he would be more than happy to set up a bedroll for her. And the bookshelf that replaced her little cot was really quite lovely. In fact, it was much more finely crafted than the other ones Hook had, hidden away in the corner as they seemed to have been cobbled together here at sea.

Once finished, she approached it for to examine it more closely.

It did seem quite daft believing the bookshelf was a new addition, as it had weighed heavy notches into the planks it rested upon, and was filled with tattered copies. The leather straps protecting its downfall from the pitching sea were ancient, and could probably do with being replaced. The wood, once the finest, had been scoured by life at sea.

All in all it was a bookshelf that had been often used, and for a great deal of time. There were present all of Hook's dense philosophical tomes, his dry remnants of a classical education. But there were also adventure novels, books on wildlife and travel--things she treasured.

Smiling, and with the illicit pleasure of a voyeur, Wendy leaned in to see what had replaced her, what Hook treasured and absorbed and kept close to his heart. All treatises on navigation and astronomy aside, the books mapped the man she knew. There was everything on Eton, the profusion and proliferation of good form. There was Richard III and Milton and especially Blake, Sophocles and De Sade and Spenser, the books on pirates significantly abutting the books reciting peerage. The Greek tragedies, declaiming the Fatal Flaw, that shiver of black within the soul that will undo it in the end--particularly well read. A smattering of Russians, of course, their wisdom and humor seldom matched. And, rather confusingly, Huysmans, although he was a rather recent author. Perfect for a classically educated voluptuary, she smiled.

Even more confusing was the turnabout of her own feelings. In front her, in text, the man she knew. The man she loved.

Her dark folly made flesh.

But then--

Something rather incongruous caught her eye. It was a copy of Cinderella, in embossed leather, much longer and thicker then the tale warranted. And when she flipped through it, there was tell of blood-oaths and murder most foul. Rapiers, and rape. The occasional centaur. She had told this story, it had lived in her head, and here it was right in front of her.

Wendy Darling stood before the shelf, herself a baffled princess. A feeling of vertigo overtook her, a pitching of her stomach.

Then she saw the volume entitled Red-Handed Jill, or, the Pirate Queen. It was a story she had been mulling over in her head for some time. She heard Hook outside barking orders, and thus ascertained he was otherwise occupied. Time was frozen, her heart beating a million a minute.

She read quickly the beginning and middle. At least, she flipped through it, her eyes skimming madly over the sentences. Yes, this is what had happened, in her mind, in here. She almost could not bear to flip to the end.

And then she did.

It told her nothing surprising. Nothing she didn't already know.

"Oh!" she could not stop but exclaim softly. "Oh dear."

Wendy shoved the book back in the shelf, with more gusto than was needed, and rubbed her hand as though she had been burned. She must tell the captain.

She ran outside, into the cool morning, and located the captain on the upper deck, surveying the crew. She dashed up the stairs, her hair loose and flying behind her, dodging the occasional man in her way. And Wendy Darling ran into Captain Hook's arms, her eyes wild.

She embraced the very surprised man quickly, and pulled back slightly so she could look into his face. "James. I must ask something of you."

"What is wrong?" he asked. He had regained his composure, but had not pulled back. The men, previously so busy, were seeing that they would be most unwelcome on deck while their captain was so occupied, and began to disappear elsewhere.

"I know the end of the story," she said quietly, oh so matter of fact, with a smile. "I know what happens next. I could _even_ go so far as to say I know what happens at the end." She cocked her head, insouciant.

She felt him tense, felt him pull her closer and tighter, his hook pressing uncomfortably into her side. "What do you mean? Which story?" There was a curious hungry look in his eyes, a kind of predatory desperation. A glint she could now place. Wendy did find it amusing that such a girl as she could be the solution to anyone's problems.

"I cannot say, but that I must essay to the mainland."

"Very well. I shall have Smee ready a boat."

"I must do this alone."

"Why?" he growled.

"To speak to the mermaids." She shifted her weight away from the dangerous proximity of the hook, and he took note of her discomfort and pulled back. Instead he used it to pull her hair way from her face, delicately, although his face was suddenly dark and closed.

"I forbid it."

"Then," she said, "I leave your crew, Captain James Hook."

He laughed, a short exhalation. "Then you are a prisoner, and I still forbid it."

Wendy reached up, placed a hand against his chest, felt his very heart beating. So much faster than that morning. "I must, Hook. James. Please allow me this. It will only do us both good. But I _must_ do it alone."

His face was very dark and cold, his lips curled. Only his hand sliding around her waist proved any feeling. Hook was holding on tight, uncomfortably so, again. Acting as if any minute she might fly away forever. "And what will happen when you are drowned, and gone?"

"Then I shall be dead, and soon forgotten." Wendy smiled as she said it, though she realized it was a very real possibility.

He did not appear to find this answer amusing. Instead, all of a sudden, a little boy desperation--"You could be happy here. You _could_. I could see to it."

"You cannot, and I cannot. I shall find us an end. Both of us," she emphasized.

The captain was unconvinced. She moved a hand up to cradle his face. "It must be alone. Only then can I receive the answers I seek. Only then can I prove to this place I am ready to return. Trust me. Give me this."

He closed his eyes at her touch, lulled, until he processed what she had to say. Then he pulled away, eyes blazing. "No. No, you cannot. I have always been captain, and you cannot disobey me. You will not leave me here to rot alone. I forbid it."

Wendy could see she would have to be equally cruel. "You have always been captain. And how long have you been alone?"

Always. But neither one of them spoke it aloud.

"It is only because I care for you," he said.

But Wendy knew Hook's deceitful heart, and while what he said might have been true, he was saying it for selfish reasons.

And Wendy told him as much, still smiling, still embracing him.

"You cannot fool me with words. I am the Storyteller, remember?"

She leaned up to kiss his cheek, the corner of his mouth, softly, and pulled away to leave, alone.

"_No,_" he said, pulling her back sharply. "It is no story, foolish girl. Stay, or let me go with you. "You don't"—Hook looked terrified, like she had only seen him but rarely. "Listen. I would give myself to you. My very own heart. Anything you wanted, would be yours. Besides," he said. "Surely this quest is folly."

He caressed her cheek with the hook, careful not to harm her. Still the steel was cold, and she knew the point was sharp. "Were you not always part of the Neverland?" he whispered.

Wendy balked. If this was so—was this quest indeed folly? It was so hard to remember motive, if not mission. "I do not think so," she finally said. "But you were always here, for me. The dark folly of my own creation. My haunting, if not my monster."

He smiled at her words, but his eyes were not meeting hers, rather skimming thoughtfully over her face. "You are probably correct. I suppose you were not. But that changes nothing. I would have you as my own. I would take you as my own." The last was said with a growl, the red threatening in his eyes. Wendy was an intelligent enough young woman to know he was quite, deadly serious.

"As a prisoner!" Wendy laughed, and she moved the hook away from her face, gently but firmly. "James. You would not want me to be so unhappy. You would not keep me here against my will, forever."

A caress is more dangerous than a cut. They both knew this, that a Wendy could be just as deadly as a Hook.

Hook pushed her away, softly. His blue eyes were dead metal. "Then go, Darling," he said, or was it just darling? "Wherever you wish. I cannot prevent you from seeking your own death. Heaven knows I have often sought mine."

He helped her ready the boat, and ascertained she was armed with sword and pistol. He lowered the boat carrying her into the water himself, all the time not saying a word.

Finally, as he was about to turn her loose onto the dark waves, Wendy broke the silence. "I will come back, of course," she said as brightly as she could manage.

He smiled at that, sad and toxic. "Oh Wendy, I do hope so."

The boat hit the water. Wendy undid the moorings and was almost immediately pitched into the black, doused with sea-spray. When she looked up again, Hook had retreated from sight. She had not expected him to do that, and felt strangely bereft.

She was left quite alone, below the Neverland sun, tossed helpless on the waves. Her silly oars and her pathetic sword and pistol seemed quite insignificant against the sea, and the island in all its entirety.

But Wendy had made her choice. She took a deep breath, and there was nothing left to do but set out for the mysteries before her.

The ocean swelled. And all things swim and glitter, and our lives are not so much threatened as our perception.

A/N

Stoppard and Emerson quoted here. There's only a couple of chapters left, so there's that. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

Also. You guys. The next chapter is kind of the big one. What sort of rating are we wanting here? Like, high, low, what? I feel I could justify either one, but I don't feel good about my current decision, and would like to see if we're on the same page about that.

And as always, my love to all of you. I hope you Americans had a lovely Thanksgiving, and the rest of you a lovely November.

~Dollfayce


	13. Beauty, or, the Sea

BEAUTY (The Sea)

_ Second star to the right, and straight on til morning. She repeated this mantra. It could be the way home._

He had found himself a Wendy, and lost her all the same. Of course he could not bear it.

The captain did not watch her leave—he would not indulge either one of them--but pointedly went to the other side of the deck, and waited. The cabin would be truly unbearable. He would stay here. Until the Neverland erased all. Until his own mind would erase her. He waited for some time, before it seemed his breathing became strangely difficult.

Hook was a proud man but he knew when he was bested. There was nothing left for him here, on this ship, in this land, in this limbo forever, even if he waited for the end of existence. The ship's wood creaked sickly, the waves lapped tepid. The air dust in lungs. Even the very sky seemed dead, and all on the horizon was abyss.

His ever-damned present.

And damn that girl for leaving him. Damn her to the same hell he knew so very well. He should have torn her to pieces on sight. He should have taken her, and made her love him, and ripped her heart out all the same. He should never have let her go alone. He should never have let him leave her.

He should—but nothing else came, only blue eyes gazing at blue infinite. Oh man unfathomable, indeed.

_ She sought the mermaids, and resisted their call, their temptation of eternal death. They only told her what she already knew to be true, which is all oracles do anyway. She said goodbye to childhood, in the form of red and blue flowers on the fairy golds and greens of the Wendy-House. Peter was nowhere to be found. She did not expect him to be. She was glad he was not._

He would take to sea, to seek his End. With or without her. For she would surely not return to this forsaken place.

The gentlemanly thing to do, Hook realized, would be to say farewell to Smee. No sooner was this decision made, that Smee appeared, a prescience testament to the loving centuries the Irishman had dedicated to his willful Captain.

As Hook gave what he believed was a very pretty speech, full of camaraderie and brotherly spirit while keeping at the forefront a proper awareness of the huge gulf in superiority between them, he noticed something distracting:

The small man was not listening at all, and was sporting the same expression sported for most of his Captain's drunken tirades.

Hook was rather affronted, especially given his very delicate emotional state, and said as much.

"Perhaps you do not even remember England," he sneered, "But I--"

"Oh, I remember England, Capn'," he said affably. "Popped by again some weeks back. Try to keep up with the grandchildren, and all that."

Smee had never come so very close to being disemboweled.

"Ah?" was all Hook managed to choke out. "And—ah--why was I not afforded the same privilege?"

"I've invited you," Smee said, a reproach in his voice if there ever was one. "You always laugh, and say something rude about the missus, or m'daughter, or--"

"Quite, quite," Hook said. "You are not answering my question. How is it you can return to England, and I cannot—at least not for any length of time?"

"I'm not sure I understand, sir."

"_Try,_" the captain growled.

"Well, you can always go home. But, Cap'n, this is always your home. Why d'you think you kept coming back?"

Hook opened his mouth, but could not form a response. He looked sadly at his mate. "Farewell, Smee," he finally said. "Perhaps I shall meet you in England someday."

Smee nodded, and smiled, and went about his duties quite untroubled. Hook rather suspected this was not the first dramatic farewell he had performed for poor Mr. Smee.

It would be the last, however. He would make sure of it. This time.

_ She made her way, finally, to the Black Castle. Follow me, she whispers across the water. Follow me, please._

Hook set off alone on the black water, did not look back at his splintered leviathan of a ship. Perhaps he would see it again. Perhaps not. He rowed himself, out onto the waves, which rise and fall in shuddering breaths. All else was ash. He finally knew what the Neverland looked like when fires went out.

And for one of the first time in James Hook's life, he is not running from, but only to.

His heart beat faster when his boat pierced into the mermaid grotto—but the young woman was nowhere immediately in sight. Further investigation proved Wendy was not at the grotto at all. He beached the boat, walked around to make sure, called her name. He didn't really expect her to be there—he rather doubted she had talked to the mermaids at all, damned slippery sylphs. They would only drown her.

Which was a rather terrifying thought indeed.

But she could not be drowned. She could not. Because oh, what would happen then? What _could_ happen then?

Other than a very determined massacre of merfolk, that is.

The air had grown chill. Hook cursed, floridly, but made no other concession to the cold. He knew better than to try to call the mermaids, both as murderer and man. Instead he looked up, and around, desperate, at the winter trees, as if seeking her.

He found something else.

A quite peculiar phenomenon was developing in the sky—everything was thin and growing thinner. A distinct lessening of the atmosphere, the threat of encroaching stars even in the daytime sky. Boundaries shifting. Borders fading. The subliminal becoming liminal.

Soon, he felt, if this kept up he would be surrounded by only stars. Too much, too far—the unfeeling vertiginous beyond.

An ultimate dissolution.

The pirate shivered involuntarily, and caught his breath, and reached his hand out to the rocks for some concrete support. He did not remember this ever happening before. Which is not to say it never had. But, now, it did not seem to bode anything but evil.

Which only meant--The Black Castle.

If he moored the rowboat upon arrival, it was only out of dumb habit, for he was not contemplating return. And nothing at all could describe his feelings as he bounded up the stairs to the ledge he somehow knew she would be on--

He burst forth as before, blade and hook raised. Sharp eyes and sharp blades. All edges, in this border place. And although they are not up high and the day is not cold there is something precipitous--in every sense. It loomed. The first breath of a sigh. The gasp without the exhalation.

The wind, usually so fierce and unrelenting up here, was curiously still. The eye of the storm, as it were.

She was there, waiting for him, and she smiled. She sat on the very edge, dress spread all about her. Sea-spray, a sleek mermaid body underneath.

He imagined she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, and without breaking his stride lowered the weapon he can lower, and went to her side.

She seemed so very much older and yet ageless. Perfect. And he was not so ruined as he thought.

"James," Wendy said, and smiled.

"That is, Captain Hook," she modified, archly. "Could you not wait for my return?"

"Wendy Darling," he said, even more haughty. "What good fortune I should arrive, as you shall surely fall to your death perched there. These rocks are treacherous."

"I am quite safe," she said, and stayed right where she was. "And we are right where we need to be. Here—join me." She settled him across from her.

"And did you--"

"This is where I first saw you, you know," she interrupted. "First saw you with my very own eyes, when I was young."

Hook said nothing, his lip curled and eyes hooded. "Then let us leave this place."

"And how beautiful you were, to me, even then."

"Brave girl!"

She laughed. "_Foolish_ girl, you mean, and my ruined man, brought low by his own stubbornness and pride and fear. My morning star, with the red pooled poison in his eyes!"

"I never said I was anything but." He felt a surge of hate, and bile. How _could_ he have imagined this girl could care for him.? Even mere weeks past, he would have embraced this hatred, and since he was attractive, and he was charming, and he knew how to touch a woman even with one hand and, yes, even with a hook—it would have gone badly for her in the end, and perhaps some day a century from now he might even have stopped thinking of her.

But much had happened since Wendy's arrival, and Hook would not have her harmed, even by his own hand.

He stood.

"Perhaps it is fitting, then, that now will be the last time you see me. I trust from your cheer that your conversation with the mermaids went well?"

(It is always good form to be courteous.)

She stood, too. A white shade. An obviously exasperated shade. "Hook, we shall never be free of one another, if that is what you are wishing! And good luck for it too, as the crocodile is on its way already.

Hook blanched, before he could process the entire meaning. "Then your conversation must have gone very ill indeed."

"No," she said, "for I have found our escape."

"The crocodile _is_ coming?" he said.

"Yes. I have already called it."

"You said you were seeking our end," he said. "But I could have given you this death, myself."

"Oh Hook!" she cried. "Oh, James, now who is foolish. There is no end. There is no growing up and staying that one way forever. There is only what happens next!"

"The crocodile is coming?" he repeated.

"Yes, James," she said sadly. "It's the only way."

Hook could not countenance this, this violent death as viable solution. For himself, yes, but never his misguided Jill. "I shall lure it away," he said, scarcely believing the words himself. Smee would be pleased to see him again, he thought darkly. And he could use the rest.

Wendy looked even more sad than before. "This heroism! No, it cannot be lured away, for I have called it myself, with my own fears." She smiled. "I am part of your precious Neverland, after all."

"And shall you conquer it as well?" he scoffed, icy disbelief all over his face.

"_We_ shall. Unfortunately, James, this is just the beginning." She reached out for him. "You were already dead. Come to life again."

_ Unbidden image--His little boy with blue eyes. His woman. Life lost forever._

"But Wendy," he whispered. "The world is not kind to an adventuress, and stories rarely have a happy ending."

"They do," she said. "You always just stopped at the wrong time. Like here. But there is always a next chapter. You think your story ended with Pan's last victory? Then when did it begin? Your birth? Your death? The first time you kissed a woman? When you lost your hand?"

She softly took his hook, and held it safe and close against her breast, and continued.

"And myself--did my own story start the day Pan flew in the window? Or when I told stories on my own? Or when I first dreamed of you? Did it end when I returned home, am I forever a little girl? Is my own story irrevocably intertwined with that little-boy spirit who shall never know love? Or do you see me right here, before you now?

"It is too late, I say. There is no going back or going on. Not for me. Wendy—you do not know--I lost my love. I lost my child. I lost my hand. My memory. My life. Oh—oh Wendy." Tears, albeit only a few, ran down his face. "I've lost everything. I've lost everything. Even myself."

"And here, where all denizens are lost and Lost—even myself, my darling Captain—have you found me. Have I found you."

He looked at her, and calmed himself. "That I have. And for this I would die again, I suppose. But not you—you--"

She smiles an almost-cruel smile. "Where would I be, Hook, without my story? Even more lost."

He smiled his own almost-cruel smile. "I suppose that you are correct. Where is the adventuress without her adventure? And I am all that and more, and I love you so much. Without me, you never will find someone in blood and black and scarlet and gold, will you? You will return to either marry a pallid watered-down man or not, it doesn't mater really, for watch you grow colder and older and more and more faded, til you are but evening frost, all your fire gone."

At this Wendy's face went blank, and Hook knew he spoke the truth.

Hook could see, suddenly, very clearly, a future Wendy sad with war and loss, and without him. He could not bear it. He pulled her close. "I would give you a kiss," he said, his eyebrows raised, eyes narrowed lazily, as detached and ironic as if he were but issuing the merest order. "I would kiss you."

Wendy's expression could still not be read, and she looked up into the sky. Hook followed suit, and what they both saw was forever.

The sky seemed so very close now—or rather, so very far. Although it was day, the sun gave but little light but hung there, a nightmarish yellow, next to the moon. Atmosphere almost absent. Mourning stars, shining over the Neverland. Watching over everything that had ever gone missing.

"It won't be long now," she murmured. "Please kiss me."

Hook leaned forward, until he could feel her breath. Until her eyes closed, and lips parted, and there was nothing but the two of them, and Hook could feel red rising--

He pulled back. "But I would surely ruin you. I am evil, and dark, and desire dark things. I would destroy you. Mine is a black heart, Wendy."

She sneered, only a little. "Oh Hook. Sometimes I could feel you forget how sympathetic our spirits are, and how well I know you. How is this--I will watch out for your black heart, if you will watch over my own. You can kiss me, or watch me leave." She pressed herself against him, daring him to do what he wanted. "The choice is yours." Her eyes were dark.

_ The choice was always yours, _he heard, but could not determine if Wendy said it aloud, or he said it to himself.

He kissed her. He tasted ocean salt, and something else. He felt rising again, a rush of wave and blood and sheer hot want—her yielding to him, her breasts and hips and mouth against him, his broken body, whether she desired it or not, her moans--and before he gave in entirely he pulled back once more. Surely, she did not know what she asked.

"No! _Take_ it," she commanded, breathing hard, as angry and haughty as he ever had been. But her face softened, and she laughed a little. "James! For whenever was a pirate king so difficult to kiss! Certainly not in one of my stories!"

"I am _not_ one of your stories!" he pouted, before he could restrain himself. "But I would never—not you--"

"You take what is given, you steal what is not. My pirate. My _gentleman_." She rubbed her hand coarsely, urgent, over his cheek, to his neck and breastbone. The red in his eyes was quite matched by her own. "My Hook."

It was then that Hook felt premonition of the dissolution of his own personality—but this time, unlike the others, it filled him with anything but dread.

Without a word--James Hook looked at his Wendy, all that flame inside sky-white skin and sea-grey eyes. Honeyed hair. Beautiful bright thing. His hand went to her side, above her waist, where the curve of ribcage and breast met. Her breath caught, a little. The curve of his hook traced its way gently up her neck, giving her one last chance to protest, against the danger he falsely imagined he was threatening. When his liberties met with not a sound, and with the point of the hook now, he tilted her chin ever so slightly up so it appeared she was at his mercy.

"My Wendy," he returned, with a half-smile.

He kissed her again, softly at first, then with all the considerable violence and passion that a man such as he possessed. The woman Wendy Darling, with her romantic mind and sweet mocking mouth, responded just as fiercely.

When they pulled apart, both were quite serious. Wendy, though, knew what to do, as women always do. She reached her hand up to Hook's face, looked at his mouth, touched his lips lightly.

"That has done it," she said slyly, looking up through long lashes.

"What do you mean?" James asked.

"My kiss," Wendy said. "You must take care of it, or I shall have it back."

"Then I shall steal it back once more," Hook snarled, in an almost convincing piratical fashion.

"Why! Captain! You will be welcome to try," Wendy said haughtily, or at least tried, for he kissed her again.

They embraced. And here, where all things are lost and Lost, did they lose their hearts truly and irrevocably to one another.

It is only the truly heartless who can fly.

When they finally stood next to each other, on the ledge, facing the blackness, it was Hook who asked, "Is this all, then? Will the clock finally have us?"

"You know it is not all, James. We shall return, I hope, and there will be suffering and pain, and a thousand more demons to conquer. We are going right back into the quotidian mess of it all, but together, as an adventure. Pirate and Storyteller. Man and Woman. I—why! I shall be upset at your avoidance of life's problems, you shall occasionally grow weary of my dreaminess. And we shall fight and be bored with each other and our children will get sick and make poor decisions and we will worry about money, but we will move beyond that and grow stronger, and it will all be wonderful, in its own way. And if there is Limbo, who is to say there is not a Beyond? But even if there is not--"

"It will be a difficult adventure indeed," Hook agreed. "But what of the crocodile?"

"I don't think we will fight it anymore."

"I shall be glad of that."

"Hook," she said. "It will be quite terrible at times. Are you certain? I..." she looked down. "I don't think I shall be able to do it without you, which troubles me."

"I am tired of being dead, and forgotten, and broken," he said, distant. "With your help, I think, I can live."

"The crocodile is coming, now," she said. "See the wake on the waters." She was correct. Something was cutting towards them, on the sea, trailing a tumbled blade of a wake.

"I know," he said sadly. "Let it come. You know what we must do?"

"Yes."

"You are not frightened?"

"I am extremely frightened," she admitted.

"As am I," he admitted back. "Was—was this really the end you had in mind?"

She looked into his eyes, the color of forget-me-nots. "It was," she smiled. "Exactly."

"Then I will bow to my storyteller," he said, and they both faced the sea.

And he stayed, and did not run, and she stayed, and did not fly. They stayed there til first light of a false morning, when the crocodile came.

The beast approached quickly, implacably, impossibly.

It was more immense than either one had ever seen it. A leviathan. A demon, in black skin and yellow eye. All of time itself, snapping and clawing, devouring. All terror, all magnificence. As the beast lept upwards, for the last time, a tidal wave of tooth and scale, Wendy and Hook knew what they must do

You see, the Neverland is never meant for mortal life. It is a liminal space, to be passed through, not lived in. And it in the end it is only the heartless that can fly. We, all of us, wherever we are, must hurl ourselves into the unknown until fate finally reveals itself. The realm of myth and magic, which is to say growing up. The infinite. The immensity of sea, and sky, and life.

The Neverland was already fading. Even the Beast, the ticking Clock, seemed inconsequential. It was only the other who was bright.

They looked at one another for the last time, here.

They leapt, together, into the blackness. They fell. The crocodile's jaws closed around them.

It only hurt for a moment. It only ever hurts for a moment, although that is an easy thing to forget.

For sometimes he was broken and evil, and sometimes she was weak and cruel. And the terrible is so close, so close really, to the sublime.

And then they flew.

********

A/N

Okay so there's one more chapter here, so just know they're okay. I'm aware it's reading a little like a Decemberists song here. It's just so how do you make it out of the highly archetypal Neverland without a symbolic death of sorts? Trading one world for another. You know how it goes. I mean, _you're_ all here. (Right?)

I hope I hope _I hope_ you guys like this. It's been sitting open on my desktop for over a month now as I freaked out about how to end this beloved exasperating monster of a fic. My own crocodile, of sorts. But I'm happy with this, mostly, even though it might be hilarious to anyone who knows me because I am decidedly not a traditionally romantic person. I think our protagonists are, though I do hope I kept Hook's malevolent side and Wendy's saucy side, though. And sorry it took so long—but was moving cross-country and starting university again after a couple years off. But that's all settled down, now.

This was mostly written under the influence of Sigur Ros. I know. I know.

And not to make this an Oscar speech, but to my darlings who have continued to read this, offered me advice and support, beta'ed my chapters, just everything—you have no idea how much that meant to me. Well. A lot, is how much. More than is probably reasonable, as well. I love you.

And love to all the rest of you too. I hope this has brought you some measure of enjoyment.

~~Dollfayce


	14. Little Girl Lost

LITTLE GIRL LOST

James and Wendy jumped into the mouth of the crocodile of their own volition. They awoke in London's Kensington gardens, slumped next to a tree.

Wendy awoke first, to the tut-tuttings of a couple taking a walk.

"Shameful," one said.

"Perhaps we should inform the officer on duty," the other said.

Being a practical girl, she stood up immediately, smiling and brushing off her dress. It was the cream and blue-grey one from—but surely? She must have fallen asleep reading again—although the light was the soft white of morning. And it did seem very misty out for an afternoon.

"I beg your pardon!" Wendy said. "I have forgotten myself, and fallen asleep during one of my little outings. I am no vagrant," she assured them.

"But your gentleman friend?"

Wendy blinked, her mind trying to catch up with reality. "My...?" she turned around to see a very rakish-looking gentleman indeed sleeping peacefully on the tree next to her. "My husband?" she blurted cheerfully, aware that her stance of proper if absent-minded young lady might have been seriously compromised by claiming even passing acquaintance with such a fellow.

"Early-morning picnic," she said brightly. Although the couple looked doubtful, they determined that it was really none of their concern, and moved on.

Wendy looked at the sleeping James for one moment, not willing to believe her eyes. To see him, actually here and present, in London daylight—it was as unbelievable as if she had conjured up a spirit. But she was alive. He was alive. They had both made it.

"Hook!" she cried, rushing to kneel by his side. "James," she said more quietly, "wake up." She shook him.

His eyes sprang open and soon his hand had grasped her collar and his hook has at her throat, before he realized who she was. "Wendy!" he cried, letting her go. "Forgive me. I—I." He looked around, dumbly. Wendy could barely contain her glee.

"We're home!" she said, throwing her arms round his neck. "We made it, we're alive!"

He laughed with her, briefly. He seemed subdued as he helped her up. "I…I cannot believe it," he said.

Wendy laughed again. He did cut quite a comical figure, a dashing pirate befuddled on park grounds. He smiled uncertainly at her. To be truthful, he had never seen him so seemingly insecure.

She took his hand. "Do not fear," she said. "You will not be called back to the Neverland. We can now live in the same world."

His light eyes held such sadness. "I do not think I—centuries have passed since I have lived here last."

"Never mind that. You are both handsome and intelligent," she said. "You will adapt nicely. Didn't you teach me to become a pirate?"

He snorted. "Your dazzling career in piracy did not require too much encouragement from me."

"Well, but you are a gentleman also. You will be fine here."

"We shall see." He paused. "I have already tried…living…before, and it did not agree with me."

"Oh, but you are stronger now," she said. "You have faced the crocodile and won."

Hook insisted he walk her home immediately, as her parents must be very worried. There was a sick instance where Wendy realized that she must have been away almost a year, but quick consultation of the newspapers proved they had only been away for a week.

The realization made Wendy a little dizzy.

Hook in his captain's regalia was garnering some very strange looks, which he repelled with a haughty and quite black glare. Still, Wendy suggested that they pawn some of his jewelry—perhaps the larger gold earring, she suggested gently—and purchase a suit, and tie back his hair. Lost as he was, he acquiesced, and within a few hours they had both reasonable sum of money, a new suit which would mark James as a man of the age if also somewhat of a dandy, and a small luggage-piece to carry his old suit and accoutrements.

There was nothing to do but return Wendy home.

Hook hailed a taxicab with some reservation. Wendy reminded him that not everyone was fortunate enough to travel by magic boat and he would have to get acclimated to motorcars, which earned her a glare but she managed to recover.

"Of course," she said uncertainly, after she had given the driver her address. "You needn't return me home immediately."

"Your family…?"

"I've been away from them for—for heaven knows how long, I can bear their absence a few hours longer, and I am quite used to taking care of myself. And what will you do? I will not have you alone in a strange place! I could help you."

"I won't hear of it. I, also, can take care of myself. Besides, which, I have resources here that I left behind when I left England, which Smee has been curating for some time on his trips to the mainland." He hoped this was true—if it was, he reckoned he should be a very wealthy man. If it wasn't, well, he had been quite a successful pirate and was used to appropriating means from others. Of course Wendy would not have to know.

"Oh," is all she said.

For a few minutes, they were silent. Wendy looked down at her lovely dress, looked at James, who was staring out the window with a strange fixed expression on his face.

"James—" she said. "I will see you, again, yes?"

He turned to her. "If you wish it," he said, coldly.

"What?"

"Now that we have successfully returned to London, I would think that you would want to take advantage of all it has to offer as an adult."

"You mean that you would take advantage of all it has to offer." Wendy fumed. She knew he could be the worst of libertines, but she hadn't expected him to revert to his old behaviors so abruptly.

"Yes," he said curtly. "That is exactly what I wish, Wendy. Having spent centuries indulging my predilections in every regard and at every opportunity possible until I found you, I wish to immediately throw it all away and as soon as possible to resume my life which, up to now, has brought me such joy and success." His infuriating, dizzyingly high-bred drawl was slipping back into his accent.

The girl felt red anger in her eyes. "James, I am aware we made no promises to each other but I thought that surely under the circumstances we would at least remain good acquaintances…" she trailed off as he realized what he had said. "Oh." She couldn't help laughing with him.

"It is true though," he said gravely. "You have made no promise to me. I will let you go if that is what you want."

"I don't ever remember you being so stubbornly foolish in my stories," she said.

"Now that is a lie. Wendy—you are still young. You are so bright, and so lovely. You could have anything and anyone that you wanted."

"I want you," she said definitely, taking his hooked arm in her hand.

He pulled back. "I am incomplete."

"Not so. If you didn't have your hook, you wouldn't be my Captain Hook. And that is all there is to it."

"Wendy—"

The cab stopped in front of the Darling household, which with the influx of money at Wendy's last return from Neverland, was now much larger. The Darlings had purchased the house next door and converted both into a living space with suitable room for all their new sons.

It was only after the former pirates had knocked at the door that Wendy realized they had no explanation of where she was for the past week.

"Um," she started.

Mrs. Darling opened the door. She had obviously been crying.

"Wendy," she said quietly. "Wendy. You've come home."

"Mother?" Wendy said, and she felt twelve years old again.

Her brothers that had been at boarding school had been sent for, and Mr. Darling and Aunt Millicent were both at home keeping watch, with the result that Wendy was borne inside by a wave of shouting boys and tearful relatives. Hook was almost left alone at the doorstep, and was prepared to leave when Mrs. Darling returned to the door.

"I am Mrs. Darling, Wendy's mother," she called to him before he could leave. "And you are?"

"Mr. James…Stuart," he said, and his ancestral name was strange in his throat and on his lips. "I do beg your pardon."

"Sir, do please come in and accept our thanks," she said gently, showing slight impropriety by touching his shoulder and guiding him in. Hook paled, but his breeding did not desert him. He took off his hat, bowed more deeply than men did these days, and allowed himself to be led to the parlor.

"Places! Behave!" he heard an adult male voice hiss, followed by a clatter of boys fighting for seats, before he entered.

"George, Millicent, boys," Mrs. Darling said. "This is Mr. Stuart, who has brought Wendy home."

Hook nodded to the family. Mr. Darling could not restrain himself from leaping up and shaking his hand profusely while sputtering thanks, although he was momentarily taken aback by Hook's offering of his left hand. Hook did find it rather amusing they were assuming he had not kidnapped and then seduced their daughter into wicked ways.

Wendy was sitting in a pile of brothers, smiling, although her grin was looking a little frantic and frightened. Hook smiled briefly at her before taking the initiative.

"I am so sorry," he said. "What your family must have gone through. Poor Miss Darling—on the way home from an evening socializing, I stumbled upon the poor girl sleepwalking in the cold outside my house. I made every effort to wake her, but it seemed she had developed a fever and was quite insensible. As it was a terribly late hour and I did not want to embarrass either Miss Darling or her family—I could tell that she was a young lady of class—I enlisted my maidservant and housekeeper to arrange lodgings and to care for her in my house until she came to. I stayed in my flat downtown, of course," he nodded to her parents.

He made a mental note to immediately hire a housekeeper and maidservant. And a house. And a flat.

"She was quite recovered last night, and able to provide her name and address to be returned safely to you this morning. I do apologize profusely; you must have been so concerned."

"You must thank your staff for their kind concern, and I feel we owe Wendy's wellbeing to you," Mrs. Darling said.

"Nonsense. It was a privilege to be of service to such a fine young woman."

Their conversation was cordial, but Hook could not help but notice Wendy's brothers peering at him rather closely, with confused sneers on their faces, and elbowing Wendy who told them to hush, and not be ridiculous, and of course not think about how silly that sounds! And that he was a very kind man! And not to stare!

Hook could not help glowering at the boys with haughty menace, with hook slightly raised; the smallest one squealed and was hushed by his aunt.

Wendy and James both bit laughter back.

Hook did find the whole situation rather overwhelming and oppressive, though, and soon excused himself. Both the Darling parents and Wendy walked him to the door.

Hook turned to Mr. Darling. "Might I have the permission to call on your daughter again?" he asked. "To ascertain she is recovered." He was glad he had purchased a fine modern suit, with his bearing and voice he knew he was marked as a fine gentleman.

"Of course!" Wendy answered for her father. "Please. As soon as possible," she said.

"It sounds like your visit would be welcome," Mr. Darling answered wryly.

Hook bowed slightly to Wendy. "It has been a pleasure, Miss Darling."

"Come back soon," she said. "Tomorrow, perhaps."

"If it is convenient," Aunt Millicent added pointedly.

Hook smiled at his Wendy. "Of course." And he turned and walked back out into London, which had not been his home for some hundreds of years.

It would be an adventure worthy of him, to be certain.

Wendy turned back to her family, to her home, to pretend to be the girl she was when she had left.

A/N

For this chapter, all thanks to cinnamonblood and Christmas. There will be one (or two?) more because I can't write concisely, and I forgot how fun this was.

Happy New Year!

Love,

Dollfayce


	15. Infinite

INFINITE

(The details and circumstance of James Hook's death and involvement with the Boy are well documented elsewhere. This is the tale of a Storyteller and her Story.)

In the present, the workroom was silent except for the faint noise of the street outside and the tick tick click tack of his work. The sound of men's voices, the gentle laughter of women; these things filtered in through the storefront window and into the shop but they did not distract James Hook from his precise patient work.

Carefully he pressed down on the brass plate with the tip of his hook, holding the piece steady while he tightened the final screw. Once the back cover was firmly in place, he picked up the key and wound the device.

Tick tick tick tick.

The one handed clockmaker had originally been a novelty; but if he could play the piano and rip a man in twain he could certainly build a little watch.

Time spun irrevocably forward on the little brass gears, counting for him moments that, blissfully, would never pass again. James turned the clock over, saw his own smile reflected in the glass face. It would fetch a fine price.

The clock on the wall chimed politely, as if to remind him he was expected at home. His heart no longer beat faster at the sound, trying desperately to outrun and outrace every passing tick. Instead, James brought the newly finished clock out into the shop, set it on display, and dimmed the lights. The keys clinked as he locked the door behind him, stepping into the chill evening.

The sign above the shop was all crimson and gold and flourishes, reading: Productions of Time. James Hook MBHI.

He still would have his little jokes.

The streets of London were crowded and the air was crisp with the start of winter.

Wendy was telling stories. It was her fate and her salvation.

Just scribblings, she always laughed, but they would be published and produced under an appropriate stage name, of course, and really she had grown quite well-known in certain circles. Theater circles, yes, but then the world was changing, and a mark of respectability might be afforded a woman who knew how to transport you from land to land through nothing but her words.

A life of art and fame would have been impossible for a bank clerk's wife of course. She was thankful every day she had maintained her independence.

Black ink wet on cream paper, Wendy wrote. She did so hope to have the play finished tonight.

The lights she wrote by flickered, throwing spindled changing shadows on the wall, seemingly unmatched to any object in the room.

When he first returned permanently to England, James Hook discovered that he had indeed retained his family's wealth, as well as many precious items accrued as pirate—which earned a surprising amount if interest, to be told, compounded and glittering and waiting. The first few weeks were a flurry of nights and days and faux pas and money gathered and spent, with every other evening spent calling on Wendy Darling. To a great extent, this did ground him—in the best possible way.

It was when the flurry died down that was the hard part, when he was left finally alone in his great house, on the unforgiving unmoving floors of land and money and societal expectations and responsibility, that he began again to hear the tick-tick of the crocodile.

As for Wendy, the return to the quotidian was almost unbearable. She did miss her family, yes, and was so happy to have them restored to her. Once again she was able to tell stories to her brothers and nephews, and every other day have her spirits lifted by an educated, handsome gentleman whose mysterious nature and perfect steel eyes made her quite the envy of all of the young women who had previously dismissed her.

But Wendy could not hide in the nursery with her stories, and James out his element only drove home how she might have taken too much to a toxic Neverland, and might prefer that lurid dreamscape to the drab and dreary now. As often happens, she grew very dizzy during tea at a friend's house—the room was doused in an artificial floral scent, and the very room and company seemed chemical-leeched of all color or interest. And as Wendy tried suddenly to catch back up at the conversation, grasping at threads, she put her hand on her head briefly to her head and excused herself into the hallway to recuperate. The ticking of the clock pricked at her mind, and she wondered if she could stay here after all.

But the details of the pirate and the Storyteller's tumultuous courtship and struggle with the crocodiles in England, and most especially Wendy's return and imprisonment in the Neverland, are documented elsewhere.

For in the Neverland, earthly life ceases so that one cannot change or grow, while the passions and inclinations which animated it still persist without ever being released in action, therefore there results as it were a tremendous concentration. We behold an intensified image of the essence of their being.

That they struggled was certain, as hardship is corrosive is salutary and medicinal, melting apparent surfaces away, and displaying the infinite which is hid.

James and Wendy were married in October, in a riot of rusts and crimsons and storm hues: the lost man and the lost woman, the pirate and the storyteller. All of Wendy's family was there. It was Mr. Darling who cried the most, although he hid it very manfully. Some of the older boys especially could not shake the suspicion of their new brother-in-law, but decided in the face of Wendy's obvious happiness would swallow their objections.

Having survived many a battle with and against one another, often to the death, marriage was a happy relief for the couple.

Lord and Lady Stuart would prove mysterious to be sure, and would run in some disreputable circles on occasion. However, any objection would silenced by Hook's wealth and a certain air of enigmatic threat, and Wendy's charm, beauty, and ability to mercilessly skewer her critics in literary works as cruelly as any pirate.

Jane Stuart was born in the next few years, then Charles; new adventures both.

Now, James Hook—the only pirate Barbecue feared—quietly unlocked the door to his spacious house. While his employment was looked upon by many as a peccadillo or eccentricity, he saw it as a necessity to keep certain monsters at bay.

He walked upstairs to his wife's study, quietly, as Jane and her little brother Charles were surely asleep—their own little birds.

He found his wife, Wendy Moira Angela Darling Stuart, at work.

(Hook wanted to laugh sometimes—would he ever have imagined his life to be thus when he sailed away from it all those years ago? That the clever, fiery little girl that would bring his fall would grow up and become his wife? He wondered if she ever thought of the monster he once was.)

He watched the lamplight dance in her honey-brown hair and pale skin, pooling, the tidal pull of muscle and light, spooling unwound ribbons of story onto the page and into the world.

How is it, he thought, that she can unravel herself so, and bind me up—a danced tourniquet—until I can barely breathe. Binds, he knew, that kept me free.

He moves behind her to place his hand on her shoulder, and she turns around and smiles up at him, craning her neck for a kiss.

"Sit," she says. "It's almost ready." She was referring to the play.

James Hook, the dark man who had lived in her head and now held her heart, sat at her feet obediently. His hand he draped over her legs; his hook he rested on his knees, and he smiled up at his wife.

(It was at times like these Wendy wanted to laugh—would she ever, ever have believed her life would be such as it was, when she flew away all those years ago? That the man she first laid eyes on as a child, that she had scared her brothers with and who had so entranced her? She wondered if he ever thought of the child she once was.)

Wendy made sure the ink was dry on her newly finished page, than scooped up her papers to read.

She looked down at her husband.

How is it, she thought to herself, that those stormy eyes could still make her lost at sea—the sharp steel of hook and gaze and heart—an anchor weighing her down. That, she knew, kept her stable enough to fly.

And Wendy told Captain Hook a story.

The clocked ticked; neither paid heed, for Hook and his Wendy no longer feared time but savored it.

***END***

A/N

Good epilogue?

Not to give a speech, but this story has been very dear to me. I started it just as I was pitching down into kind of a horrible place; finishing it as the future couldn't be brighter.

I hope, I hope, _I hope_ some of you enjoyed it even a fraction amount as I did writing it.

But the part in the middle. I've been having this wild plot idea lately. I realize I kind of wrote Wendy into adulthood with this story; I want to write her as an adult. I don't think she would be happy returning under the circumstances she does; I want her to be pulled back into the Neverland as a full-grown woman Storyteller, with all of her powers kind of untrammeled and suffocating, like what happened to Hook. I want them to go through things and learn to relate as adults, as opposed to the half-grown-up things they are in the source material and, I hope, in this story.

(The quote about Neverland, incidentally, is not mine but comes from an exegesis of Dante as quoted by William Vollmann is his treatise on Noh, which thus far I can only recommend with the usual reservations about Vollmann.)

(Speaking of, and this is huge, cinnamonblood got me started and some of the writing in the beginning as well as all of the research is directly attributable to her amazing self; go read her writings.)

(There's some Blake and stuff too, obviously.)

This is too long. I hope you liked the story.

Love,

Dollfayce.


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